Destiny's Past
by Witherwings01
Summary: One choice can change a world. What if Hermione Granger had been sorted into Ravenclaw and had never joined the golden trio? In a dark future, Hermione is given the chance to change the past and fulfil her destiny. Timetravel/AU/No romantic pairings.
1. Prologue

_**Disclaimer**: If it were in any doubt, I'm not creative enought to have invnted any of this rich and detailed world where we can let our imaginations run wild. I own nothing. _

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><p><strong>Destiny's Past<strong>

**Prologue**

Hermione felt the familiar sensation of gravity reasserting itself on her body as the laceless trainer that had served as her portkey released it's hold on her - she instantly wished it hadn't. The feeling of weightlessness had brought with it blessed, if all too brief, relief from the burdens of being nearly eight and a half months pregnant. She placed a protective hand over her belly and was rewarded with a swift kick from her unborn daughter; that reaction brought a Mona Lisa smile to her lips.

"Mrs Weasley?"

The unfamiliar voice startled her, although she knew it shouldn't - she was expected after all. An honoured guest in fact.

Hermione turned and found the source of the voice. The speaker was an adolescent, perhaps just old enough to be called a young man - _just_. He wore the black robes synonymous with Hogwarts students, paired with a blue and bronze tie, marking him out as a student of Ravenclaw house. Whilst, pinned to his chest, a small silver badge read; 'Head Boy'.

Hermione realised that she didn't recognise the boy, and, she reflected, that realisation saddened her somewhat. This young man had begun his magical education after she and her peers had completed their own. It marked the end of any tenuous link to her own childhood school years – she was now separated by a generation from those who now lived and studied in these august halls.

The young man, stood on the lowest step of the castles main entrance, a few metres from the spot designated for portkey arrivals. He was tall and lean, with sandy hair and bore the air of someone who was about to meet royalty. It was a reaction that Hermione was now well used to, although one she still felt a certain degree of unease with.

She tossed the used trainer onto the pile of other discarded items that had served as portkeys for other guest, having elected to travel to to the castle for the eighth anniversary of the end of the war in that manner herself, in no small part due to her advanced stage of pregnancy. _Not so funny now the shoe is on the other foot, is it?_ her inner voice questioned, sounding very much like the voice of her best friend, Ginny Potter, who Hermione had subjected to a fair amount of of good natured teasing during her first pregnancy three years earlier. During that time Harry had become extremely over protective of her and their unborn son, James; now a delightful and mischievous two year old.

Although pregnant again herself, Ginny was now repaying Hermione's playful taunting in kind, as Harry, although still very much the protective Father-to-be, had mollycoddled her noticeably less this time around. He had however, Hermione remembered abruptly, still insisted, as Ron had for her, that Ginny travel to the memorial via portkey, rather than have the long trek up the school driveway from Hogsmeade village.

"Mrs Weasley?" the head boy queried again, still clearly in awe of who he had been tasked with meeting. "The next portkey is due to activate in ten seconds," he concluded, confirming Hermione's own train of thought, and she move aside from the arrival point.

Ron had even gone so far as to suggest that Hermione might be better off staying home this year, rather than exposing herself to both the physical and emotional strain of the day. She had of course rebuffed that suggestion immediately, but even she could not say why. Yes, there was no doubt she wanted to pay her respects to her fallen friends, but there was something ... _more_. She couldn't rationalize it, but somehow she _knew_ she needed to be at her former school today.

Ginny's equally rotund frame - she was due the week after her - sprang into existence a few seconds later.

Dropping her own portkey - a dogs plastic chew toy - onto the pile that Hermione had deposited hers, she turned on the spot and caught sight of her Brothers wife.

"Hermione!" she squealed with delight, as she caught sight of her oldest friend and sister-in-law, and pulled Hermione into a tight embrace that suggested they hadn't seen one another in weeks, rather than just the previous evening, the two woman leaning awkwardly into the hug as best they could manage, what with the addition of so large a bump in front of their normally slender frames.

"Where are the boys?" Hermione asked, referring to Harry and Ron, as they pulled apart.

"They're apparating to the village once they have dropped James off at the babysitters," Ginny replied matter-of-factly.

The head boy nervously cleared his throat to gain their attention. "M-Mrs Potter?" he began falteringly, sounding, if possible, even more nervous than when he had addressed Hermione. "Your parents wanted me to tell you that they are already inside. I can take you to them if you like," he added almost as an afterthought.

"Coming Mione?" asked Ginny, nodding her head towards the open double doors of the castles main entrance.

"No Gin, I think I'll wait for Ron. You know how he gets if I try to walk up stairs by myself!" Hermione replied, almost succeeding in keeping the mild tone of irritation out of her voice. There was after all, a grain of truth to what she said.

By way of reply, Ginny rolled her eyes in a sympathetic and long suffering manner. As Ron's baby sister, she was of course very familiar with the youngest Weasley son's over protectiveness.

Once her friend had waddled out of sight, Hermione began to walk the grounds of the castle she had first visited over fifteen years beforehand. It was something of a ritual to her; one she had partaken in every year since the wizarding world had first gathered at the school to remember loved ones lost during the wars.

She walked slowly past the main entrance, her minds eye still clearly able to picture the missing chunks of masonry after the battle. To Dumbledore's grave, a site that also housed the memorial stone to those who had perished. Past the greenhouses, the scent of roses catching her attention as it wafted through the air - she would have to ask Neville why he was cultivating such thoroughly non-magical plants. Finally she made her way down the slopping lawns towards the lake, as always gravitating towards the same spot she so often had as a student; a spot she had always thought of as 'hers'.

But, as she neared the ancient oak near the shoreline, she noted that 'her spot' was already occupied. However, she noted absently, she was not particularly surprised by that fact. It was as if she expected to meet someone here today.

Slightly out of breath from carrying the extra weight of her unborn daughter on her annual walk around the grounds, Hermione silently approached the woman sat in the shade afforded by the trees wide stretching canopy of leaves, lowering herself gingerly to the ground as she did.

Hermione recognised her companion instantly, although she had aged considerably since the two had last met. To a casual observer, her companion bore the appearance of a woman of very advanced age - even for a witch. A shock of grey, almost white, hair framed her pale, lined face and her extremities trembled slightly; most would adjudge her to be well into her second century of life.

The woman had not acknowledged Hermione's presence, instead she gazed toward the horizon, her eyes unfocused. They sat like this, in companionable silence for several moments; silent, save for the gentle lapping of water against the rocky shore bellow and the muffled snatches of unidentifiable voices arriving up at the castle behind.

Presently Hermione spoke; "I knew you'd come."

The elder woman did not answer aloud, although she did nod her head once in silent acknowledgement, a knowing smile creasing her features as it spread across her aged face.

"We did it," Hermione continued. "Its over."

The other woman's smile did not so much falter; more that it took on a tinge of an emotion Hermione couldn't quite place. Sadness perhaps? But that didn't quite seem to fit. It was something more - sorrow at something lost?

For the first time the elder woman turned her gaze away from some unseen point on the horizon, and instead allowed it to settle on Hermione, her eyes instantly falling on Hermione's swollen abdomen. "_Harry's?_" she mouthed.

Hermione blushed. True enough, when she had first met Harry and Ron as an eleven year old first year, it had indeed been the raven haired Gryffindor to whom she had first formed a schoolgirl crush – or perhaps hero worship was more accurate. But, as most pre-adolescent fancies do, it had faded soon after, replaced instead by something arguably far deeper. Love of the unspoken kind shared between siblings.

Despite a couple of brief romances, she had long held a flame for her other best friend; a love she had once assumed would never be reciprocated. _How wrong I was,_ she thought, cupping a hand under her bump, recalling Ron's eventual declaration of love in return - _eight years to the day in fact_, she recalled happily.

To the elderly woman she replied; "No. It's Ron's. Ron Weasley. I'm due next month - a girl."

The woman nodded once more, her brown eyes glistening with unshed tears of joy, falling back into silence, which although stretched for many seconds proved not to be an uncomfortable one.

Hermione regarded her old friend, and noted that the older woman's breathing was short and laboured, each inhalation a short rasping gasp. "Do you need a healer?" Hermione wanted to know, concern lacing her words. "I can call up to the castle," she added reaching into her robes to retrieve her wand.

The elderly witch shook her head vehemently, evidently denying medical assistance, even as Hermione extracted the shaft of wood from her maternity robes pocket. But instead of pulling out her own wand, her fingers wrapped around another; coarser and shorter than her own. It did not belong to her, instead she had taken to carrying it with her every time she had travelled to the memorial since she had found it lying on the ground - in this very spot no less - eight years ago.

She said as much to her companion, who was eyeing the wand hungrily, extending a trembling, age spotted hand, as she did so - clearly requesting the wand to be placed in it.

Hermione acquiesced without hesitation.

"_Memorha Mihi_." The spell was cast with an almost wheezed incantation, the woman pressing the tip of the wand into her temple, before, with a speed of movement that seemed to defy her condition, she quickly touched the tip of the wand to Hermione's own forehead.

Hermione gasped as her hand shot to the spot where the wand tip had made contact with her skin. The point on her forehead feeling hot to the touch; a heat that seemed to be radiating through her entire body. She felt no pain, but her vision was greying at the corners and she sank to the floor feeling dizzy and disorientated. Finally her vision blackened completely and Hermione Weasley knew no more.

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><p><strong><em>Author Musings<em>**

_Hello everyone. This was my very first piece of Potter fanfiction and __I've decided to re-edit it as I have learnt a great deal about writing during my time on ffnet and I wanted this story to be as good as it can be. _

_Anyway, this little tale was inspired a throw away comment from Hermione in book 5 (I think) where she mentioned the sorting hat had seriously considered placing her in Ravenclaw. It got me thinking, and Denstiny's Past was born._

_I know at first glance it appears to be a R/Hr pairing and not the H/Hr it is billed as, but in fact there are no romantic pairings at all. I know that puts some people off, but what can I say, I write what my muse tells me to._

_Oh and BTW, obviously I haven't killed off Hermione - she is my lead character after all ;) _


	2. Chapter 1

_**Disclaimer**: As ever, I own nothing of the Potterverse._

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><p><strong>Chapter One - Undesirable Number Eight-Nine-Two<strong>

**5th November 2023**

Hermione Jean Granger.

It was a name that she hadn't gone by in a great many years.

In fact, it wasn't even the most recent alias she had discarded.

Following the second Wizarding War, or, as it was now instructed to be referred to as - _the great purification_ - she had gone into hiding abroad, first seeking refuge with a French family - the Delacours.

There, having passed herself off as a distant cousin, she had completed her magical education at the Beauxbatons academy, where, unlike at Hogwarts where she had spent her first four years in the magical world, they still accepted and educated children with her _background_.

Looking back, life had been relatively good back then; she had a home, friends, and a family (of sorts). In brief moments, it was almost possible to forget the anguish of loosing her parents in the first skirmishes of the war, and the fate of dozens more families just like hers stranded in Britain and just be a normal teenager. _Almost_.

All that changed when the unrest spread from the British Isle's to the rest of the continent, forcing her, and hundreds like her to flee. She well remembered the fleeting sense of Deja Vu as Mr Delacour had woken her in the dead of the night urgently whispering almost the exact words that her head of house, Professor Flitwick, had uttered to her on the night she had been evacuated from Hogwarts to the continent what seemed like a lifetime ago; "_They're coming._"

Once more she had been spirited away; once more those who had selflessly protected her had paid for it with their lives. The image of the bloodied corpse of the Delacour's eldest daughter, Fleur, still visited her often in her nightmares.

Since then she had spent most of her life on the run, attempting to organise resistance groups whenever and wherever she found like minded and willing souls - if she stopped in one place long enough that was. She had, over the years, fled first to Bulgaria, where she found shelter in the home of a famous Quidditch seeker named Viktor Krum, then, successively to Australia, Peru, Canada, and about a dozen places in between that had all merged together into a confusion of places, people and names in her mind.

Most recently, and upon what, in hindsight, proved to be an ill advised return to Britain, she had confounded a senior official by the name of Umbridge; a mean spirited woman who's cruelty and heartlessness could not be disguised by her fondness for the colour pink or fluffy kittens, into believing she was a half sister from America.

That ruse had however, eventually failed, when she had been captured whilst trying to erect wards around an island off the coast of Kent where she had been attempting to create a sanctuary of sorts. A place where those like her could conceal themselves from the oppression of the regime.

Death, she often mused morbidly, would have been preferable to the years of enslavement and torture she had since endured.

She did of course recognized the three words instantly as the name she had been born to. Given to her by her parents; parents, who, unwittingly, also happened to be the reason for her years of exile, and now enslavement. Parents who were what used to be referred to in polite company as Muggles.

But, to see it here in print, on a dusty shelf amongst countless of others names deep inside what was once the Ministry of Magic, seemed somewhat false - somewhat _unreal_. So much so that she quietly spoke the words aloud, allowing the familiar yet alien names to role over her tongue.

Her voice sounded thin and raspy to her own ears.

_Probably from lack of use_, she realised miserably.

One of the first things she had learnt since her enslavement was that you should speak only when spoken to. Even then it was perhaps better to remain silent than to answer even a direct question. One was likely to receive a lighter punishment for refusing to meet their captors eyes and remaining mute, than they would for daring to speak to their masters as if they were an equal. As if they were _pure_.

No. Now she was marked. Never again could she pass herself off as a pure blood, or even half blood and the privileges that went with said status. Her blood status was now clear for all to see thanks to the ugly, black tattoo she had been branded with upon her capture on the inside of her right forearm.

It was formed by two black letters - an M and a B - with the second letter deliberately drawn lower case and backwards, linked and slightly bellow the final vertical line of the first letter. Not that unlike the glyph of her birth sign – Virgo - she had noted dimly in the immediate aftermath of her capture those many years ago.

Intellectually she knew that it had originally stood for _mudblood_ - a vile term that meant that a person had no magical heritage. But, she thought bitterly, it could just as easily stand for 'magically bereft' or even 'ministry blacklisted' nowadays. For whilst, in the early days of the purification, only muggle borns were rounded up and marked, now, just about anyone who stepped out of line, muggle and wizard alike, were likely to be imprisoned, branded and enslaved (at best).

Ensnaring the two letters wound the image of a snake which at the moment lay dormant and docile, loosely entwined around the letters. What, however, a non-magical being would call a tattoo was actually something far, far worse. As well as permanently marking the individual as impure, the magical mark also served as a tool of punishment, based as it was, around a similar adaptation to the _Protean Charm_ used for the Dark Mark that adorned the forearms of Voldermorts closest allies. It required only the touch of a wand to awaken the snake, which would then constrict around the letters. This induced unbearable pain in the victim as the snakes actions were magically transferred to their own heart. _Just like a voodoo doll_, she had once thought miserably as her captors took her to within an inch of deaths embrace.

Finally, she, like all the others, had been stripped of her identity - a sequence of eight numbers, that were tattooed alongside her branding, replaced her name. She was now expected to answer to eight-nine-two - the final three numbers in that sequence.

It was then, perhaps a minor miracle, that here, today, she stood in the Hall of Prophecy deep under London, especially as her presence there was not an accident – well not entirely.

You could say what you wished about the current regime - and she often did, away from the prying ears and eyes of her guards that was. But they hadn't ruled the combined magical and non-magical world with an iron fist over the last several decades without making use of the best and brightest, and, as her Hogwarts Professors could attest (if any were still alive that was) she was certainly that.

Not that those in power would ever admit it to the outside world, but here, deep beneath London, dozens of _undesirables_ as they were termed, worked tirelessly on projects that the power hungry and paranoid elite didn't want the general populace discovering. Tools to keep and maintain power by any means necessary.

_Plausible deniability_: She understood the concept. Even if one of these undesirables managed to make it out of the confines of the rabbit warren of tunnels that made up the site of the former Ministry of Magic and succeeded in reaching the surface, relaying their story to the general population of what was occurring under their feet - a highly unlikely event in itself - who would believe them? For those who toed the company line, life under the regime was, comfortable. Perhaps even more so than before the world had slipped into darkness.

Even those who did grow weary with the status quo would not be a willing audience, since the regime was not beyond killing not only the escapee, but anyone they came into contact with - anything to ensure their secrets were kept. This meant that it was far more likely that if any member of the general wizarding populace came into contact with an escapee they would likely kill them on sight.

So today, _or tonight_, she thought glumly (she hadn't seen the sun in as long as she had been held captive) she had been sent on errant to the Department of Mysteries to retrieve something that seemed completely unimportant and forgettable right now. She had barely noticed her feet carrying her to the lift, or the ride to the lowest level. Nor had she registered the walk to the black door that separated the Department of Mysteries from the rest of the ninth floor, but when she entered the circular entrance chamber with its twelve identical doors she had stopped dead as she made her way automatically to the correct door. For on her right, another door already stood ajar.

All the other rooms she had ever been permitted entry to on this level had been, small, darkened spaces filled with gruesome books full of dark magic, or magical devices so terrible in their conception she hoped they, like her, would never see the light of day. But this room, the little she could make out of it past the partially closed door anyway, seemed to _glow_.

Whether it was a spark of her former self, or a self loathing reckless desire to be caught, that made her push the door fully open she could not say, but the thin slice of moon-like light that was visible through the crack in the doorway was like a flame to a moth and she hungrily swung the door open.

She had entered a vast chamber and walked past row after row of shelves that reached from floor to high, vaulted ceiling, each dangerously overfilled with glass orbs of differing sizes. These vessels were the source of the eerie light, for aside from sporadic torches that burned with ghostly blue flames, they were the only illumination in the cavernous room: Each contained a bulb of light - some bright and pulsating, others dull and misty, whilst a few others had gone dark altogether.

Her footsteps echoed loudly off the hard stone floor as she walked aimlessly in the gloom. _I'm going to be killed. I'm going to be killed_, she thought morosely, yet something made her continue deeper until she stopped at one particular aisle - number ninety seven. She had turned then, as if guided by an unseen hand, and walked to the far end, where one particularly bright orb caught her eye. Taking a step closer she could make out a label, scribed in loopy handwriting. It read:

_ST to XL_

_RE: Hermione Jean Granger/defeat of the Dark Lord?_

She reached out a trembling hand that shook in equal parts fear and excitement to remove the sphere, but a sound from within the chamber sent her whirling on the spot, her right hand instinctively reaching for her wand pocket to hex any intruder into oblivion. It was a moment before she realized, as her hand groped hopelessly at the empty fabric of her robe, that her wand, like every other piece of her individuality had been stolen from her.

_I'm dead._

But when no attack came, she realised that mercifully, the sound hadn't come from an intruder in the chamber - or more accurately_, another_ intruder.

The fragment of her rational mind that remained was slightly surprised to register that the sound had come, not from within the hall, but from within _her_. That the sound was in fact her own heart hammering against her ribcage in vain attempt to escape the treacherous body that had brought it to this place, where, if caught, certain death would follow.

Releasing a shaky breath and wiping her sweat drenched palms on the front of her robes, she ignored the disquieting sensation of her heart battering the inside of her ribs, steadied her hand and clasped the glass orb pulling it off the shelf towards her. She had expected it to be cool to the touch but instead she found it pleasantly warm, like picking up a stone that had sat all day on a beach in the summer sun.

She blew the excess dust from it's surface, and, in the orbs flawless surface, caught sight of her own reflection; _Merlin's ghost! _

The vision before her made the breath catch in her chest.

She hadn't seen a mirror in all the time she had been held, and whilst the eyes starring back at her she recognized - chocolate brown, as her Mothers had been - the rest of the image could have been a different person all together if she didn't know better.

Her hair; once lustrous, brown and curly, had reverted to the flyaway frizz of her youth and much of it's colour had faded to grey. Her face was lined with age and/or stress and her skin had an unhealthy grey complexion that came from living without sunlight, that made her look only slightly more solid than a ghost_._

_Have I really been down here that long?_

She had only been thirty two when she had been imprisoned, and her best estimates led her to believe that she had been held for a decade or so. Could she have been that wrong? Had she been down here a lifetime? Or had the years of torture and perpetual twilight stolen her youth from her?

_You Bastards! _

She wanted to scream; to rage; to destroy everything she could reach. _Damn you all! _Her hand tightened around the glass orb as if trying to crush the delicate glass to shards and cut into her palm so that she might feel something, _anything_, other than the all consuming anger.

_Get a grip __**Hermione**_. Came a quiet voice from within and she forced her breathing to slow with an act of will she no longer had thought herself capable of.

_Good girl __**Hermione**_, continued the inner voice that she now realised she hadn't heard in longer than she could recall.

Hermione's lips twitched into an unaccustomed smile, the muscles working her jaw feeling odd and out of practise from the expression.

_I know who I am. _

_I'm Hermione Jean Granger. _

_I know who I am. _

_I'm Hermione Jean Granger_, she thought repetitively, noting dimly that she was, in fact, whispering the words aloud like a mantra.

She drew strength from the words, from the knowledge that whilst the regime might have taken everything from her; her family, her friends, her freedom, her _world_. But, try as they might they hadn't erased _her_ - she was here, recorded on this orb, and now that she remembered who she truly was and what she stood for, she would fight them with everything she had left - till her last breath. To destroy the darkness that had covered her world, or die trying.

_And the first thing I have to do is open this orb_, thought Hermione, realising intuitively that to gain access to the contents held within she was going to have to smash it.

The orbs contents were now pulsating as fast as her heart as if also realising the importance of the moment. And so, knowing that if she was caught it would be the last thing she ever did, she raised the glass sphere above her head and dropped it to the cold stone floor.

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><p><em><strong>Author Musings<strong>_

_Ok, you could be forgiven for thinking that this is a totally different story (I promise it isn't). It takes a couple of chapters for everything to make sense but for now I can tell you that we have jumped deeply into AU. We'll circle back to the prologue eventually and hopefully it will all make more sense by then. _


	3. Chapter 2

_**Disclaimer**: Check out my bank account and you'll see that I'm several zero's short of JKR. I think that clears up any doubt over who owns Potter._

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><p><strong>Chapter Two - The Other Hermione<strong>

**25th July 1991**

Hermione Granger was a witch.

Truth be told, she had known this for a long time. Certainly long before she had ever heard of the prophecy. More accurately perhaps she had always known there was something _different_ about her. Something _special_.

Those feelings had been confirmed to her just over two years ago when she had met and befriended an elderly woman in her towns local library. A woman who had introduced her to a world of magic and wonder. A world of Goblins, elves, dragons and more. A world that she belonged to. A world that she was destined to save.

The memory brought the ghost of a smile to Hermione's lips as she walked home from that same library today. She recalled how she had laughed aloud - in the centre of the library no less - when the woman, who had introduced herself as Mrs Umbridge, had told her that she, like her, was a witch.

Prior to that moment, Hermione had thought Mrs Umbridge to be a kindly, lonely old lady who enjoyed the company of the younger generation - Hermione was by no means the only youngster that Mrs Umbridge spoke to. But, looking back, it was obvious that she had taken a special interest in Miss Hermione Granger.

She had stormed out of the library that day, tears streaming from her face, the advice of her parents, teachers and elders ringing in her ears, all repeating in the same lecturing tones '_Never - speak - to - strangers_!'

Intellectually she knew she should report Mrs Umbridge (if that was even her real name) to someone. Her parents; the librarian; someone; _anyone_. She was obviously some sort of deviant, grooming youngsters for God knows what. But, although every rational part of her brain knew that to be the right thing to do, something stopped her. Something deep within. Something less tangible, but nevertheless real - Hermione Granger _wanted_ to believe.

She had always been smart, but she was also rather plain, with slightly too large front teeth (that her dentist parents assured her she would grow into) and a large mop of bushy brown hair. She had never been particularly popular, and, as an only child, often felt more comfortable in the company of those older than her - like Mrs Umbridge - as opposed to her peers who were all just _silly little girls_, concerned with nothing but cosmetics and boy bands to her eyes. But she had always felt that she was, for want of a better word, _special_.

Yes, for her intellect that was true; she only needed to hear or read something once and it was committed to memory, but also for her _gifts_ as she had taken to calling them: Once, as a very small in stature seven year old, and unable to reach the bookshelf she wanted, she had turned to ask the Librarian for help only to find the desired book hovering in mid-air in front of her face. How she had managed to avoid shouting out in surprise she thought she would never know, but, in hindsight, she realised that she _wanted_ to keep it a secret. That, and telling people you were seeing things hovering of their own accord wouldn't have gone down well with most rational minded people.

On another occasion her parents wanted to perform an operation to remove a tooth she had damaged in a swimming pool accident, she had gone to sleep anxious and worried only to wake up the next morning to find not only had her tooth apparently fallen out of it's own volition in the night, but that she had several large gold coins under her pillow. Her parents had looked dumbfounded, before regaining their composure and weaving an intricate story about the tooth fairy.

It was that feeling of being different that Mrs Umbridge had awoken in her once more. So, instead of reporting the elderly woman to someone in authority, Hermione returned to the library the following day after school as per her regular routine.

Hermione passed the entrance desk where the librarian (who did not look up) worked silently and turned left climbing the three broad steps that led to their regular meeting place.

There, sat at their usual table, facing the window, just as Hermione had suspected she would be, was Mrs Umbridge.

Mrs Umbridge was a slender, elderly woman, with what must have once been brown hair that was now mostly grey. She bore the look of someone who had once been very beautiful and athletic but had gone to seed. But despite her apparent frailties she had a sharp mind, inquisitive nature and still moved with the grace and elegance of that of a far younger woman.

The table she always occupied was in a corner dedicated to quiet study and Mrs Umbridge sat, as ever, facing the large arched window. For some reason Hermione's subconscious registered only now that Mrs Umbridge always positioned herself directly in the shaft of light cast through the large window.

Hermione made her way over to her with a thousand questions half formed in her mind, but, instead of asking any of them, she asked rather stupidly;

"Why do you always sit here?"

Mrs Umbridge smiled. It was the first time that Hermione could recall seeing the expression ever reach her eyes, and in doing so it transformed her features.

Hermione had never any good at judging an adults age, but her smile seemed to melt the years away, allowing Hermione to believe she was talking to someone her Mothers age, rather than someone a generation older still.

"I like to feel the sun," replied Mrs Umbridge vaguely. "I knew you'd come back," she finished.

Hermione doubted that very much. She hadn't known herself until she had found herself at the top of the steps leading to the library's entrance; she said as much.

Mrs Umbridge chuckled. "Because I know you," she replied. "Know you better than you know yourself in many ways," she finished cryptically.

Hermione didn't know what to make of such an odd comment, Mrs Umbridge was little more than an acquaintance; and a questionable one at that. She elected to ignore it and voiced what she had come here to say; "Prove it," she said in a petulant voice slipping her school satchel off her shoulder and allowing it to fall to the floor where it landed with a thud owing to the large number of heavy books held within. The librarian looked up with a scowl from her desk at the entrance. "Prove your a witch," Hermione continued, folding her arms across her chest and speaking in a voice only loud enough to carry the short distance to the still seated woman.

Mrs Umbridge's expression changed. She was still smiling, but it had softened into an expression Hermione had trouble placing - almost a maternal look.

"Dear Hermione," she began quietly giving an almost imperceptible shake of her head, "there are some things more important that what you can prove with books and cleverness. Sometimes you need to trust in yourself to believe what is right."

_Ha! _Hermione's first instinct was that she had been right - Mrs Umbridge was no more a witch than she was, and no more magical than the floor she was standing on. But, Mrs Umbridge seemed to read her mind and continued slightly more urgently; "All I ask is that you listen to what I have to say. If when I finish you still do not believe me you are free to walk away. I won't bother you again."

Hermione had nodded without realising she had done so.

Immediately Mrs Umbridge began to tell her a story of dark Wizards, wars and prophecy's, which, to Hermione's disbelief, she found she accepted as gospel. Something about the way the elder woman spoke, rang of truth, and, despite living in a quiet suburban town where the most exciting thing that ever happened was the occasional lost cat, she had no trouble believing the look in Mrs Umbridge's eyes when she spoke of the torture and suffering she and others like her had suffered.

Finally, when Mrs Umbridge had revealed what should have been the most unbelievable tale of all; that she was in fact from the future, and that she too was Hermione Granger, albeit far older, the younger Hermione found that she had no trouble believing it at all. She recognized, despite the hardening of years of abuse, the eyes of the elder woman as her own.

Pulling her mind back to the present, the now eleven year old Hermione continued perhaps the most important trip of her life. Today was the twenty fifth of July, and, having had many more meetings with her elder self over the last two years, knew that today was the day that she would finally receive her letter inviting her to begin her studies at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry - the finest magical school in the land.

She had paid a visit to the library today, hoping to see The Other Hermione there for some last minute revision (she had taken to thinking of the ruse she was about to perpetrate as something of an examination in itself). But, like the last few times, their regular table in the corner was disconcertingly unoccupied.

Quickening her pace Hermione rounded a corner that led to her house, passing her parents dental practice as she went, her heart hammering somewhere near her throat.

Not from the exertion. No, she was, if not athletic, certainly fit and healthy. Instead, the first seeds of doubt were taking hold in her overcrowded mind_, _forcing her heart rate to race as quickly as her thoughts_; What if it had all been some elaborate lie? What if it were just some big joke?_

Not that she could, for the life of her, conceive of a single possible reason to fabricate something as truly unbelievable as the tale that had been revealed to her over more than twenty four months. Nor could she envisage how her elder self could have faked the displays of magic she had shown her over the years.

She desperately wanted, _needed_, to get home. If she could just hold the letter she would have some tangible proof that it was real. That it all even existed. That she truly _was_ special.

She turned left onto her drive, noted the family car was parked along the side by the garage, hopped over the low garden wall and flower beds, and literally sprinted the last few steps to her front door which, unnoticed by Hermione, swung open, as if by magic. She aimed her heel at the door and kicked it shut as she hurried to the kitchen where she could hear her parents voices.

"Hello Mione," said her Father, smiling broadly at his only child as he folded his newspaper and tossed it on the plain, scrubbed wooden table.

"Goodness dear," said her Mother. "Whatever is the matter? You look terribly flushed?" She put a soapy hand (she had been doing the washing up) on her daughters forehead to check her temperature.

"I'm fine Mum," Hermione protested. "I ran home. It looked like rain," she invented quickly, noticing, only after she had spoken, that only a few, thoroughly non-threatening looking clouds were visible through the kitchen window in the sky overhead.

It seemed to satisfy her Mother however, who resumed her dish washing, humming contentedly as she did.

Her mother was a slender woman with similar bushy hair to her own, which at the moment was pulled up into a loose ponytail. Her brown eyes were both thoughtful and inquisitive, framed by elegant rimless glasses, which right now also sported a large amount of bubbles that she had just deposited there when she had pulled an errand hair from her face.

"Did you see Mrs Umbridge today Mione?" asked her Father, a slightly balding, bespeckled man, as he placed a fresh cup of tea on a coaster in front of her.

Hermione shook her head, unwilling to allow herself to speak.

Most of her conversations with her older self in recent weeks had revolved around how not to arouse suspicions that she already knew of her identity as a witch; an identity that Hermione felt certain that if she opened her mouth right now she would blurt out something best kept secret.

Her parents needed to believe, when the time came, that entering the magical world would be for the best for their only daughter, and as such they had to be shielded from the dangers she was soon to face or they would not let her go, which, the elder Hermione assured her younger self would mean history unfolding as it had in her original time line. That, they both agreed, could not be allowed to happen.

Therefore, Hermione had to keep up the pretence of continuing her daily life as normal. That meant, despite a certainty that she would not be going on to her chosen muggle secondary school, she could not permit her grades to falter. So she had worked hard and achieved top grades in every subject whilst at the same time she had been tutored by the elder Hermione on every aspect of wizarding life.

Her Father wrinkled his brow in concern.

"I do hope she all right," he said sincerely.

The elder Hermione had warned her younger self to only refer to her under the alias of Mrs Umbridge, if anyone - especially her parents - should ask why she was spending so much time at the library, which, even for her, was excessive.

Fortunately Hermione had had very little cause to lie to her parents over the past few years. Being very mature for her age, and having proven herself trustworthy, her parents only enquired occasionally into her meetings with Mrs Umbridge. During the few conversations where the name came up, Hermione told them that Mrs Umbridge had been telling her stories from the war and her role in the resistance. Her parents then simply incorrectly assumed _which_ war.

Although Hermione disliked lying - even by omission - her elder self counselled that it would be for the best. Fortunately she didn't ever need to elaborate on the mis-truth, as only once did her Father seem even moderately suspicious when he had said; '_Funny. Umbridge doesn't sound very French.'_ but he had simply shrugged and returned to his paper.

"Where did you say she lived?" asked her Dad returning his own empty mug to the shrinking pile of washing up, although Hermione was sure she had never mentioned anything about where her older self lived. In fact she knew for certain, because try as she might, she couldn't remember her elder self once mentioning where she stayed in this time. Hermione's stomach gave another horrible lurch and seemed to drop to her knees as her crushing self doubt returned.

All she wanted to do was ask if the mail had been delivered yet, but she forced herself to bite her tongue. It certainly would not do, the elder Hermione had counselled recently, for an eleven year old girl, to enquire about the mail - most out of character. No, Hermione would have to play her part well, and, like any actor, she would have to wait for her cue.

"Perhaps I could write to her. Make sure she's being looked after," her Father added, continuing from his earlier line of thought.

"Oh!" exclaimed her Mother, looking up from her chore for the first time since Hermione had sat down. "Leonard. The letter!"

_Letter? _Hermione's heart skipped a beat, hope swelling inside her once more. She had to force herself to take a breath as her father rose from his stool, crossed to the back of the room, and reached into the bureau that occupied the corner of the kitchen producing a yellowish envelope addressed in green ink.

"The damnedest thing..." he began.

But whatever that was, Hermione didn't hear properly, too focused was she on the feel and smell of the paper to listen properly. She took the offered letter hungrily only half listening to her Father's story "..._couldn't keep it in his hand_..." before tearing it open, pausing only briefly to notice the wax seal exactly as her elder self had described it; a shield with four animals: A raven, a lion, a badger and a snake, surrounding the letter H.

"What's it say Hermione?" her Mother wanted to know, so she read aloud;

_'Dear Miss Granger.' _

Her voice faltered. She had been worried about having to fake the excitement and awe necessary to convey her apparent discovery that she was a witch. Clearly she needn't have worried

Clearing her throat she continued.

_'We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry to begin your magical education. Your name was recorded at your birth and we now extend this offer to join the magical community. You will no doubt have many question so a member of our staff will visit you shortly to explain further and provide, should you wish, a book and items list for the start of term on September the first._

_Yours sincerely_

_Minerva McGonagall_

_Deputy headmistress.'_

Hermione starred at the letter - it was real. It was _really_ real.

She looked up from the page, her mouth dry and her hands clammy. Both of her parents stared at her unblinkingly and appeared to have gone temporarily mute.

Both re-found their voices simultaneously moments later, their words crashing over each others making them almost unintelligible:

"It's _ _what_ _ some _ _do_ _ sort _ _they_ _ of _ _mean_ _ joke! _ _Witchcraft_?"

Their questions were left unanswered as a sound like a car backfiring startled them, promptly followed by the familiar chimes of the doorbell ringing.

As both her parents seemed frozen in place, staring at one another with wild eyes, Hermione hopped down from her stool and sprinted to the door, her Hogwarts letter still clutched tightly in her left hand. _It's real! _

Throwing the front door wide, she was confronted by a stern looking woman with her hair pulled up into a tight bun wearing emerald green robes and glasses; Hermione recognized her instantly (although she had never before laid eyes on her) as Professor McGonagall - she was exactly as she had imagined her from the elder Hermione's descriptions.

"Professor McGonagall," said Hermione in an awed voice remembering at the last instant to make it a question - she was supposed to be a muggle after all.

"Pleased to make you acquaintance Miss Granger," said McGonagall formally in her thick brogue. "May I come in?" she added looking surreptitiously over her shoulder at a number of small boys on bikes who had gathered at the foot of the Granger's driveway and were unashamedly gawping at McGonagall - no one like this had ever been seen in the quiet town of Faringdon before.

Hermione managed to nod and stepped back to allow the professor to enter the hall, the children outside unashamedly craning their necks to follow McGonagall as Hermione closed the door behind her.

"This way I presume," said McGonagall without preamble, indicating the doorway that Hermione had moments before rushed through, in a tone that made it abundantly clear that she wasn't asking a question. Without another word she strode forwards and pushed open the door to the kitchen.

Hermione stood stock still for a moment_; Its really happening_! She thought gleefully hugging the letter to her chest, before she bustled in after her to find the professor already making introductions:

"_ uty headmistress at Hogwarts."

Hermione's Father was looking bewilderedly back and forth between the imposing figure of Professor McGonagall and his daughter, whom he was squinting at as if he expected her to suddenly burst into flame or sprout wings or something equally abnormal. In contrast to her Fathers almost comic book reaction, her Mother seemed rooted in place, still holding the same soapy dish rag in her hand which was now dripping suds all over the tiled floor.

The silence soon began to stretch beyond comfortable levels, although Professor McGonagall seemed unconcerned, surveying, what to her must have been a strange room, filled as it was with muggle contraptions designed to do the work a witch like McGonagall would have used magic for.

Hermione didn't know what to say or do; her elder self had not gone into the details of her acceptance into Hogwarts, so, taking a steadying breath she did what came naturally - took charge.

"Please sit down Professor," she said offering a chair with her outstretched hand.

"Thank you Miss Granger," replied McGonagall giving no outward indication as to whether she approved of being told what to do by a child - a prospective pupil no less - and she deposited herself onto the nearest stool where she perched looking stiff and somewhat ill at ease.

"Some tea perhaps?" offered Hermione a little frantically hurrying over to the kettle - this was not going well. Her parents had to like this woman so that she could attend school and fulfil her destiny at Hogwarts.

"No need for that," said the professor as Hermione reached for the tap to fill it. With a wave of her wand, a tea pot levitated across the room and had been filled by a jet of steaming water from it's tip. With a few muttered incantations under her breath the tea was soon being prepared as if by the hands of an invisible butler. Hermione's Mother sank into a seat, her mouth ajar at a peculiar angle, the dish cloth slipping from her grasp and falling to the tiled floor with a wet splat.

"It - its true then," mumbled her Father attempting to assimilate the complete change to his world view.

"Yes Mr Granger - " said McGonagall taking the saucer and tea cup that had been hovering at eye height in front of her. " - On all counts. Your daughter is indeed a witch, as - as you have seen - am I. I often find a small demonstration far more, _illuminating_, for muggles such as yourselves."

Hermione retook her seat to her Fathers right, opposite her Mother, noticing, as she did so, a small smile tugging at the corners of the deputy headmistresses mouth as she finished her last statement.

"Mu - Muggles?" asked her Mother with her first words since the professors unexpected arrival.

Professor McGonagall seemed to be expecting this question too, for she began her answer almost before the question had been posed:

"Muggles? Yes. It's a term we in the magical world use for those who are non-magical beings. As such, you were, until moments ago, unaware of our existence, and therefore will doubtless have many questions about Hogwarts and the greater wizarding world. Questions I will answer to the best of my ability to do so."

Hermione didn't know what to expect or hope for, but not once, not in her wildest imaginings of this moment had she pictured what happened next. Her parents exchanged a brief look before a wide grin spread across both their faces:

"We always knew our Hermione was special!" her Father declared triumphantly as he stood and shook the Professors hand vigorously whilst Hermione's Mother gathered her into a very tight, very soggy hug. "Remember that tooth Maggie?" he added.

"And the constant escaping from her car seat harness!" added her Mother, recollecting happily.

"What about the - "

"Indeed," cut in McGonagall somewhat stiffly. "Clearly, you are very preceptive...for Muggles that is," she added almost as an afterthought.

Hermione was relieved to find that neither of her parents seemed to take offence from the turn of phrase and broke into her first real smile of the day - it was happening.

She watched in a daze, as if detached from the conversation, as Professor McGonagall outlined for her parents what was involved in a magical education and the world Hermione would enter. She was vaguely aware that she was answering and posing questions to the Hogwarts teacher, but, looking back, she was unable to recall anything either of them had said. The same three words seemed to have taken up residence in her mind at the expense of all others - _I'm really going, I'm really going_, _I'm really going_.

She noted dimly that McGonagall had reached into her robes and extracted yet more pieces of parchment; _my book and equipment list_ she supposed.

"Here is a list of books and equipment you will require for the start of term," said McGonagall confirming Hermione's hunch. "You will also find directions on how to locate our muggle liaison office in London. They will assist you and your family in procuring your schools supplies."

Mr Granger reached over the table top and grasped the list, his eyes scanning the contents of the list quickly.

"How much is this all going to cost?" he asked looking a touch nervous.

"I believe," began McGonagall shifting her gaze to some unseeing point as if trying to recall pertinent information, "that the Galleon to Pound exchange rate is exceptional at the moment. However - " she added peering over her spectacles at the spotless kitchen with its multiple new appliances that anyone, from any world, couldn't fail to recognise as expensive, " - should you require financial assistance there is a fund available."

"No, no. We'll pay our own way," confirmed Maggie Granger moving to her husbands side and giving his shoulder a squeeze. "Beside," she continued sotto voice, "it can't be any more expensive than sending her to Oxford."

"Well then," said Professor McGonagall standing and showing no signs of having either understood or heard the reference to the university that Hermione, since the age of six, had professed she wanted to attend to study medicine. "I have many more muggle-borns to visit today," she concluded sounding a little weary as she pulled a list from her robe with several names bellow Hermione's own. She caught sight of the next name on the list; _Justin Finch Fletchley_. The name was familiar from her studies with The Other Hermione but in her excitement the details escaped her at present.

Pulling herself from her musings Hermione abruptly remembered her manners and stood quickly as if she had sat on a firework. "Thank you professor." she said politely, holding her hand out formally.

Another smile threatened to tug at the stern line of McGonagall's mouth, but instead of shaking the precocious eleven year olds hand, she reached once more into her robe and extracted what looked like a miniature book - one that the reader would require a magnifying glass to read by the looks of it.

Now McGonagall did smile. Placing her wand atop the tiny book, it grew into a thick, deep red covered tome who's cover read; _Hogwarts: A History. _

_"_I believe you will find this most _- educational." _

* * *

><p><strong><em>Author Musings<em>**

_OK, so thats all the major characters introduced. Obviously they are all one in the the same, namely our favourite book-smart witch, Miss Hermione Granger, but in different timelines. The story will continue in much the same style; jumping from canon universe to AU and back again as we head to the conclusion where (hopefully) all the threads will come together without gapping plot holes._

_I should point out that the changes the elder Hermione will have her eleven year old self instigate will alter the timeline from the dark future from chapter one towards the canon we are all familiar with. As such I have tried to keep the re-telling of canon to a minimum, and focused instead on missing moments._


	4. Chapter 3

_**Disclaimer**: Still not mine. For shame!_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Three – Escape<strong>

**5th November 2023**

Hermione crumpled to the floor in an unceremonious heap. Her legs felt as though someone had hexed her with a very fine jelly leg curse; her breathing short and shallow. Placing her index and middle finger to her neck she noted her pulse was fast a thready, her fingers coming away from her skin slick with sweat. The intellectual fragment of her brain recognised the symptoms of shock, but whether shock at what she had just heard, or from her audacity, she could not say.

Trying hard to calm her breathing, she screwed her eyes shut and tried to recall everything she had seen and heard in an attempt to commit it to memory.

Upon smashing the orb into a thousand fragments the ghostly visage of a woman, who Hermione felt certain she should recognize but could not place, formed out of the glowing embers held within.

The woman had held herself rigid and had spoken in a deep, rough voice that did not seem to match her slight frame, hidden though it was beneath several haphazardly arranged shawls. She wore thick glasses that distorted her eyes so badly that they looked like giant luminous orbs - not unlike those of a house elf she had met and befriended during her time at Hogwarts. The memory stabbed at her heart - _Dobby_. The irrepressible little elf was one of the first casualties of the ultimately fruitless war against the dark side.

_Focus Hermione_, she chided herself, this was no time to be dwelling on the past. _Where's that Eidetic memory when you need it?_

Breathing slowly and deliberately she tried to clear her mind, which, despite her state of shock, chance of imminent discovery and certain execution, proved surprisingly easy to do.

Closing her eyes she _heard_, as if spoken once more in the same rough, wheezing voice;

_...The one with the power to save The Boy Who Lived comes closer...born unto a world without magic, born three sun rises before summer dies...the dark lord will fear her and all her kind as she will complete the triagon of the light...only the Boy Who Lived can defeat the dark lord, but three there must be, for without balance the light will fall into darkness...without the three, the Boy Who Lived will live no longer..._

Hermione released a breath she didn't realise she had been holding. What did it all mean?

_The one with the power to save The Boy Who Lived..._

Why did prophecies have to be so damn cryptic, she thought furiously? What power? What boy? A boy who lived as opposed to, what – a ghost? Frustrated she filed it away for later consideration.

_Born unto a world without magic._

Well that much was obvious; a muggle born.

_Born three sunrises before summer dies_.

A tear trickled down Hermione's face with the dual realization that the birthday of this '_one_' was her own - the nineteenth of September - but also with the crushing awareness that she could no longer even picture a sunrise in her minds eye, so long had it been since she witnessed one.

Pushing away the disturbing revelation she returned her attention to words that hung in her mind like a tantalizing promise of what could be, and, although the rational part of her mind objected profusely, _there must be dozens if not hundreds of people who fit this description_, she decided to dispel her usual misgivings on divination and seers, and, for the time being at least, accept that she was indeed the person mentioned in this prophecy. The alternative was to pretend she had never heard those words. The alternative was to do _nothing_. But Hermione was through with living under the ruthless regime _- if you could even call this a life_! Either she could use this information to bring down the empire the dark lord had built or she would die trying, and take as many death eaters with her as she could.

Fortified by her new resolve Hermione pushed herself up from the cold hard floor and rose stealthily, finding that her legs felt stronger and sturdier than they had in longer than she could recall, as if an _Imperius_ curse had been shrugged off. _Perhaps_, she mused silently_, it has_. Her mind, like the rest of her body, felt renewed and focused and realised with a jolt that she had lingered too long.

Pulling her tattered robe around her she hurried back to end of the aisle. If she wanted to understand and utilise what she had heard she would have to escape; her absence would surely not go unnoticed for much longer before someone was sent to retrieve her. The rest of the cryptic puzzle would need to wait for another time.

She crept back, retracing her steps as silently as she could, her ears straining to catch the whisper of a robe or the scuff of a shoe, her eyes roving the darkened shadows in the corners of the room as if by sheer force of will she could discern the figure of a foe lurking in the darkness. _Nonsense_, she chided herself. She was unarmed and wandless, no death eater in their right mind would feel the need to hide in the darkness; Hermione was counting on it.

She soundlessly slunk from the perpetual twilight of the prophecy room into the oppressive black of the entrance chamber. She closed the door to that room with a slight thunkand stood back.

Soundlessly at first, as though the room was being shaken by an unseen giant, the walls of the circular room began to rotate, accompanied by a rumble that started like the distant crashing of waves against the shore, and rose to a thunderous crescendo. The walls and doors became nothing but a blur, the blue flames of the candles burning their imprints onto her vision, so that even with her eyes closed, she could still see the blue smears on the back of her eyelids. Hermione knew that this rotation was designed as security device intended to keep unauthorised persons lost in the maze of tunnels until they could be apprehended. _Like me_, she noted with grim gallows humour.

The blur of doorways began to slow and Hermione hoped desperately it wouldn't take long for her to find the exit door - she had a one in twelve chance. For whilst for those processing the Dark Mark reserved for the pure bloodlines need only call aloud for the exit, mudbloods needed to rely on Hermione's regular manner of egress - namely waiting for her handler to open the door. But that would not be suitable. Not, that is, if she wished to live for more than a few seconds.

Squaring her shoulders Hermione strode forward towards the door directly in front of her and pushed it ajar, her shoulders slumping slightly as she took in the long, low rectangular room and realised instantly that it was not the exit corridor. The unadorned room was lit by several low hanging lanterns suspended by golden chains that made what little light there was dance and reflect. In the centre stood what looked to be a large, almost swimming pool sized, fish tank, although what looked like green algae growing on the inside of the glass prevented her from determining what lay within.

Hermione took a retreating step back and let out a heavy sigh. If she had a wand she could have magically marked this doorway as a rejected path and increased her chances of finding the correct door. _But that's not an option_, she thought dejectedly, resigned to the fact that once she closed this door and instigated another rotation she would have as much chance of re-finding this unwanted room as locating the exit.

_Footsteps_.

Hermione froze in the still open doorway straining her ears.

"Wait here," said a gruff, distant, but nearing voice, Hermione recognized as that of her handler, Goyle, "I need to get eight-nine-two."

"Damn!" swore Hermione throwing herself into the glittering room and slamming the door shut just in time to hear the entrance door open. _They must have seen me._

"What the? Crabbe! Get in here. She's tryi - " said Goyle confirming Hermione's hunch, but the rest of his statement was drowned out by the thunderous rumbling that sounded even worse from this side of the chamber.

_At least that will buy me some time_, she thought as her heart resumed it's frantic pumping whilst the analytical part of her brain recalculated downwards the odds of a successful escape from slim to next-to-none. She was now, as well as being unarmed and outnumbered _- hunted_. It surely would take but a minute for even the gormless Crabbe and Goyle to summon reinforcements. _If only I had more time, _she thought vainly.

_Time! I_nspiration struck as suddenly as a bludger to the back of the head. Why hadn't she thought of it before? She might not have a wand, but the former ministry of magic still held a huge number of magical items she could use to aid her task. Including, she recalled from the depths of her memory, the largest supply of time turners in existence. There was no way she would be able to escape with death eaters looking everywhere for her. But, they certainly wouldn't be looking every _time_ for her. If she could just reach the time room, she could jump to a point where she wasn't being pursued, and simply walk out of the department.

Hunkering low and keeping to the shadows she stole forwards across the unfamiliar room, fighting an urge to vomit as she passed the tank and realised it was full of human brains floating in a green solution. Three-quarters of the way across the room Hermione turned right and pulled open a door at random, which opened onto a narrow, nondescript corridor with multiple doors leading off it.

Going purely on instinct she trotted the length of the room and pulled open the door at it's farthest end.

A cold shivered passed up Hermione's spine; this room she knew. The death eaters referred to this as the Room of Doom - a low ceilinged, circular room with a shaft of light emanating from a hole in the roof which illuminated the ghastly equipment at it's centre; a Scavenger's Daughter.

Mercifully Hermione had never suffered the torture of being strapped to the chair like device. Although she had been made to watch, as a lesson in obedience, as other prisoners were strapped to the chair, which performed a function opposite to that of a medieval rack. Instead of stretching the body, the victim was crushed, causing unbearable pain and uncontrollable bleeding from the mouth and nose, especially if performed in conjunction with a _Cruciatus_ curse so that the metal rods would tighten and constrict further as the victim flailed about.

_Curious_, the detached part of her mind had once noted, that a regime so intent on the line, 'Magic is Might' would choose such a positively muggle device to discipline their slaves.

Keeping to the outer curving wall of the room, Hermione hurried to the winding passageway she knew led out of the torture chamber trying vainly not to look at any of the secondary torture devices hung menacingly on the stone walls.

Lit only by torch light, the narrow, steep, winding passageway that led up and out of the Room of Doom was, Hermione knew intellectually, designed to muffle the screams of those poor souls held within from the rest of the departments occupants. But here and now, as her footfalls echoed loudly off the unyielding stone corridor as she wound her way up its twists and turns, it resembled nothing more than a trap waiting to be sprung.

Giving up any pretence of stealth, Hermione broke into a run, skidding to a halt at the top of the stairs just in time to register the bobbing light being thrown by someone's wand approaching from the other end of the long corridor she had entered.

"_IMPEDIMENTA!"_ Yelled the shadowy figure as his spell narrowly missed Hermione's head as she dove for the cover of an open doorway finding herself once more in a room she had never seen before.

She stood at the top of a rectangular amphitheatre with several tiers of stone benches looking down on a sunken pit. In the centre, on a raised stone dais, stood an ancient looking, crumbling stone archway. A veil at it's opening appeared to flutter slightly as if from a breath of wind that she couldn't feel, whilst whispered voices called out to her from beyond the fluttering fabric.

Shaking herself from the vista she bounded down a couple of tiers and flattened herself to the floor in a prone position attempting to hide from Crabbe who she had managed to identify in the brief flash of light from his ill aimed curse.

"GOYLE. SHE'S IN HERE!" yelled Crabbe, making hope flare within her that perhaps the duo had been too stupid, or perhaps to afraid, to call for backup. The corner of her lip curled into a grim smile.

"You take that side," said Goyle as he bolted into the room.

Hermione heard a grumble of assent and the scuff of boots moving away from her hiding place, meaning, she assumed, that Goyle would be coming in her direction.

Sure enough lumbering footsteps soon started moving down the steps towards her and she held her breath in an attempt to conceal herself a moment longer.

Goyle came into view, or more accurately his black boots did, one tier above her, light from his wand moving to and fro in an attempt to locate his quarry. He stepped down onto the same level. Hermione was sure that her pounding heart, that filled her ears with the sound of rushing blood, would surely be so loud as to alert her foe to her presence. The wand light flickered to Goyles left (away from her) and he took another step down now sweeping his wand to the right his back now towards her. Hermione fought the urge to expel air in relief.

_Now or never_, she thought grimly.

Pushing herself soundlessly to a crouch she emerged from her hiding place almost on all fours, her chest mere inches from the ground. With only the briefest of moments to compose herself she took aim and struck out with her right leg, striking her intended target - the back of Goyles knee - square and true. Few wizards or witches she had met on her travels had understood her dedication to the art that muggles referred to as martial arts, but she had always felt it prudent to learn to defend one's self, even without magic.

Her strike was accompanied by a satisfying wet crunch, and a yelp of both confusion and pain as Goyle's injured leg gave way sending him sprawling forwards, tumbling head over heel towards the dais at the bottom, where he landed with a sickening crack as his face made contact with the unyielding stone floor.

_"STUPEFY!"_ called Crabbe aiming blindly in the direction of his colleagues strangled scream.

_"PROTEGO!"_ Hermione had grabbed Goyles wand as it slipped from his grasp, summoning a shield just in time to block Crabbe's surprisingly well aimed spell.

She wrapped her hand round the unfamiliar shaft. It felt rough and ill balanced in her palm, but, though fainter than with her own wand, she did feel the thrum of magical energy flow through her once more. She allowed herself a brief moment to savour the feeling.

"You're for ibt now Gwandger," said Goyle through a bloody nose from the bottom of the stairs. "Surwender my wand now and I'll make sure dat your death is nice anb quick."

"Your in no position to be making demands _Gregory,_" retorted Hermione, fortified by Goyles use of her family name as opposed to her designation. "Now order Crabbe here to back off or I'll hex him into next week. You know I can."

Hermione managed to keep a mask of control on her features as she saw Goyle give the subtlest of nods in Crabbe's direction.

"Good decision," said Hermione now unable to stop her lips curling into a small smile. "Now Crabbe here is going to_...escort_ me off the premises," she finished, having paused to search for the right turn of phrase.

"I'm not taking this filthy little - " he began to protest, his lips pressed together, in what could be no other half formed letter than 'M'. Hermione was certain he had been about to say mudblood, before he was halted by a raised hand from his superior.

"Gib her what s - she neebs," he ordered, the blood flow from his now swollen and purpling nose making him splutter over the last two words.

Broken and battered he might be but Hermione's suspicions were put on high alert by how quickly he was acquiescing to her demands - it was too easy. She was still deep in death eater controlled territory and whilst she was now armed, so too was Crabbe, and what he lacked in finesse and talent he made up for in cruelty and malice.

Her fears were proven well founded mere instants later, when perhaps half a dozen new black robed death eaters swarmed into the chamber, each throwing curses towards the tier Hermione still stood on. _Damn! Perhaps those two aren't so stupid after all_, Hermione berated herself, wishing she had made good her chance to escape whilst she had it.

She simultaneously dropped her shield charm, realising subconsciously, that a shield conjured by an unfamiliar wand would be no match for more than a half dozen death eaters, and somersaulted forward as the stone bench she had been standing astride shattered into dust under the force of the multiple spells.

Landing awkwardly she half stumbled, half spun to face her attackers, her wand arm a blur as she conjured protections against the countless enemy spells; _"RICOCHETTO! PROTEGO! BOMBARDA!" _

Goyle's wand seemed to stunt her magic, weakening her spells or sending hexes clumsily off target. Stumbling backwards she tried to take stock of her situation. They had the greater numbers, the high ground and the advantage of not being held prisoner for Merlin knew how long. In short, they had her cornered.

A half formed plan of diving behind the stone arch to make use of the meagre cover it offered literally fell by the wayside, as, still back-pedalling furiously, her right ankle was caught in the vice like grip of Goyle's left hand, who she had stumbled too near to.

"Dw - Dwop it Gwandger!" he ordered, spluttering blood over the bottom of her robes as he gave her leg a tug sending her tumbling in an ungainly manner to the floor accompanied by jeers of derision from the upper tiers where the other death eaters had, for the time being at least, halted their onslaught, and, by a shooting pain through her left shoulder where it made heavy contact with the unforgiving floor.

Closing her mind against the pain she thrust out her free leg and felt, rather than heard another wet crack as her heel satisfyingly made contact with Goyles collar bone, shattering it instantly. Goyle recoiled and let out an almost silent, strangled cry of pain, as she clambered to a kneeling position pushing the wand tip into the crook of Goyles neck using his body for protection.

"DROP YOUR WANDS OR I'LL KILL HIM!" she bellowed hoping her voice sounded more confident that it had to her own ears.

One of the unknown attackers actually laughed at that - a cruel, high pitched maniacal sound that conveyed no mirth. "AVADA KEDAVERA!" she yelled sending a flash of blinding green light towards Hermione, sending her back-peddling away like a crab, missing her by the smallest of margins.

But her attacker had not missed his target; the green jet hit Goyle square on the chest and Hermione saw his eyes briefly flare in surprise and anger, before the light left them blank and staring.

"MURDERERS!" she yelled instinctively, although, in truth she was delirious with pleasure to see him - her torturer - dead, and the realization shocked her to the core. _What have they done to me?_ She raged internally. _Sentimentality is what stops us from being death eaters_!

But hers, it seemed, had been stripped away along with everything else that once made her, _her_.

_I'm nothing like them,_ she thought furiously.

Laughter rained down on her as if in response to her inner turmoil.

_So it has come to this_, she thought hopelessly. No longer content with torturing and murdering those different from them. _No. Now they kill their own kind - for fun_.

"Kill her," came the order from an unseen face.

_Not today_.

_"IMMOBULUS MAXIMA!_"

Her assailants froze, Crabbes wand held frozen aloft, moments from unleashing the killing curse upon her. The effort of maintaining the spell against six opponents with an unfamiliar wand and her weakened state was almost crippling. With her own wand she knew she could have maintained her hold on them almost indefinitely, but with this wand, she was only postponing the inevitable: "_Levi corpus_." she intoned holding her shaking wand as level as possible whilst channelling what was left of her magic through her other outstretched palm.

Goyles corpse rose into the air as her voice croaked, straining from the effort of the dual spells.

With the last of her magical strength she flicked her wand and sent Goyles body flying across the room where it clattered into her assailants, scattering their bodies like bowling pins, both sending them sprawling and breaking the spell holding them.

Hermione bolted for a doorway to her left, her heart pumping as furiously as her legs, as the angry shouts from the highest tiers resumed.

"Colloportus_,_" she wheezed as she swung the door shut and leant against it gasping for breath.

Instants later hammering fists and muffled voices slamming against the other side of the locked door spurred her into movement. She pushed herself off the door frame and stumbled into the room, noticing her environment for the first time; sparkling light bounced off every surface like the glistening of a million diamonds. Clocks of all shapes and sizes cluttered every available piece of wall space, and now that her ears had homed in on the relentless ticking she couldn't understand why she hadn't heard it immediately - the time room.

She didn't register the startling magic of a humming bird being constantly hatched, fledged and reborn in an endless loop, held within a crystal bell jar, because she had begun making her way directly toward a glass fronted cabinet stood against the opposite wall which held countless tiny hour glasses on delicate chain necklaces - time turners.

Her shoulder jarred from the pain as Hermione broke into a sprint making straight for the cabinet, but she ignored it, in no small part thanks to the motivation of what sounded like dozens of pairs of heavy boots making thunderous, sprinting footfalls in her direction - clearly they knew another way in.

She flung the glass door open, mildly surprised that it didn't smash on wall given the force she had exerted, and grabbed clumsily for the first chain her hand reached.

Without pausing to unclasp the chain she pulled it roughly over her head, where the chain caught and snagged on her bushy hair.

Held between the shaking index finger and thumb of her left hand she fumbled with the tiny hour glass on the pendant. She had no idea how many times she would need to turn it but taking a guess she spun the timer end over end twice.

Her last sight was the vision of at least three of her would be captors bursting into the time room via another entrance to her left, their wands raised. All three were moving their mouths in identical ways but for some reason Hermione could not hear a sound - not even the blood in her own ears. Still they were close enough that she could see clearly that all three were mouthing the same, unmistakable words;

"AVADA KEDAVERA!"

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author Musings<strong>_

_Oooops. I do keep trying to kill off Miss Granger don't I? I doubt I'll succeed though. ;)_

_The Room of Doom is something that appeared on the Marauders Map in the movies, so I have shamlessly stolen it - it sounds menacing. _


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four - The Muggle Liaison Office**

**1st August 1991**

"Incredible!" exclaimed Leonard Granger for at least the fourth time in that hour alone.

Hermione starred at the reason for his astonishment.

Where, mere seconds ago, there was what appeared to be a very substantial and solid brick wall, enclosing the tatty back yard of a pub - the leaky cauldron - now they stood before an archway that revealed a bustling street full of strangely dressed people clutching packages of various shapes and sizes, many dragging apparently reluctant children along behind them.

"Welcome," said Gregor Gudgeon, their Ministry appointed Muggle Liaison Officer. "To Diagon Alley."

The Grangers had travelled to London a week after their visit from Professor McGonagall, and, having followed the instructions she had given them, arrived at what appeared to be an old, dilapidated theatre tucked down a side street, away from the hustle and bustle of a busy London shopping street. Distant chatter, engine noise and the occasional sound of a car horn floated down the confines of the narrow street, sounding strangely muffled, as if heard from under water.

The building, which must have once been quiet elegant, had a crumbling classical façade, complete with faux marble columns and arches, and a first floor balcony overlooking the quiet, dirty street. The remnants of green anti-pigeon netting hung in tatters in the windows, on which, ironically, perched about a dozen of said birds. A faded red sign bellow proclaimed in peeling gold letters; _The Theatre Royal._

It occurred to Hermione that there was very little royal looking about the building now. Casting her gaze upwards she saw large holes in the roof and several fairly well established plants growing in the gutters and out of the brickwork - it was very clear that this building had been uncared for and abandoned for years, if not decades. On its boarded up entrance, which Hermione's subconscious mind registered was conspicuous by a lack of graffiti that adorned the rest of the streets tatty buildings, hung dozens of yellow warning signs. Each proclaimed that the building was '_unsafe'_ and '_condemned', _whilst the largest one read: _Due for demolition; contact MLO contractors for details._

Underneath was a telephone number_, _supposedly to deal with those enquiries, deduced Hermione.

"We must have the wrong place," her Mother suggested exasperatedly, having already completed one circuit around the block looking for their destination without success. "Can I see that?"

"Sure," her Father replied with an accompanying shrug, handing over both the written directions Professor McGonagall had provided and a London A to Z he had been using.

Her Mother frowned as she inspected first the directions and then the map in turn before pushing her glasses up onto her forehead and pulling the map to within an inch of her nose, as if in that single action she would be able to see with clarity what they were missing.

"_Pardon us,_" came a chorus of voices, and the Granger family had to shuffle out of the way as a couple of elderly female shoppers, each pulling a tartan patterned trolley, made their way past on the narrow pavement.

Hermione caught a snatch of the passing conversation:

_"...Disgraceful," said the first woman. _

_"Wants tearin' down. Bloomin' eyesore..."_ the second woman nodded in agreement.

_"...Bin sayin' their going knock it down for years, but nothing ever happens..." _

The passer-bys moved out of earshot and Hermione registered with slight surprise that, without realising it, she had followed the two shoppers a little way down the street whilst she eavesdropped.

"I think we need to call that number," she said, trotting back to her parents sides who were still pouring over the map.

"What's that, Hermione?" her Mother asked in a distracted sort of way as she looked up and down the dingy street as if she was expecting to see a sign saying something along the lines of - _Muggles this way – _and a big Neon arrow pointing them in the right direction.

"The telephone number," Hermione explained, pointing to the demolition notice. "I heard those two ladies saying this place has been condemned for years; sounds like the perfect place to hide a magical building to me. I've read all about them in _Hogwarts: A History,_" she added proudly, having read the heavy tome from front to back already.

"Nothing else to loose," her Father agreed. "There's a phone box over there."

The family crowded into the tiny space around the receiver as best they could, and, whilst her Father read the numbers from the banner, her Mother dialled.

A pause.

"_Hello MLO, how can we help you?" _The silky voice seemed to come from everywhere in the box at once_._

"Erm," her Mother started uncertainly, unsure if she needed to hold the receiver or speak to the air - she settled on a mixture of both. Half shouting, and enunciating her words very clearly, as you might do for a hard of hearing relative, or (Hermione stifled a giggle at the thought) how her Father often tried to communicate with the locals when they were on foreign holidays. "We are look-ing for the - um - Li-a-son Off-ice," she finished lamely, obviously not wishing to mention the word _Muggle_.

"_One moment please,_" came the instant reply before the phone line audibly cut off.

"Now wha - " her Father began with a shrug, only to be cut off as the theatre building behind them appeared to flicker and blink, like the static riddled picture of a poorly tuned television set. The few cars and pedestrians that passed didn't seem to notice the buildings strange behaviour at all. In fact, Hermione had the distinct impression that they all had an overwhelming urge to look the other way as they passed within eye shot of the theatre.

The theatre stopped flickering and reappeared looking solid and substantial once more. But, where before the building had looked as if it required nothing short of magic to hold it up (which, Hermione noted, was a distinct possibility), now the building looked pristine. It's façade was freshly painted in a brilliant coat of white paint, whilst the balcony windows were devoid of the ugly and frayed pigeon netting. In it's place, gleaming glass windows that sparkled in the sunlight that seemed to reign down on this lone building on what, till then, had been a largely gloomy day.

The condemned notices were also absent, only the golden letters of the Theatre Royal remained, which, whilst the Grangers watched in slacked jawed amazement, altered themselves to read; _Muggle Liaison Office_.

"That's my girl," said her Father, after a brief silence and ruffled her frizzy hair paternally.

Hurrying across the nearly deserted street they entered what once must have been the theatre's box office, but which now served as an impressive lobby bathed in light from the arched windows above. There they met Gregor Gundeon, a thin faced wizard with smooth black hair.

"Found us in the end then?" he asked jovially seemingly all too well aware that locating the liaison office was a less than easy task.

"Actually," rejoined Hermione's Mother slightly stiffly, "it was my daughter who figured it out."

"Really? Mr Gundeon had asked looking appreciatively towards Hermione. "Looks like Hogwarts have got themselves a new Ravenclaw."

Hermione blushed and flashed an _I'll explain later_ look to both her bewildered looking parents.

"Right then. Lots to do," Gregor all but bellowed as he steered Mrs Granger by the elbow towards what Hermione assumed to be his office.

If Hermione thought her parents stunned by professor McGonagall's appearance, it was nothing to how they must have viewed Mr Gundeon. He was wearing robes of deepest purple with gold trimming and he seemed to like nothing more than to use his magic wand for everything. From conjuring three seats for them in his office, offering them drinks and beverages, to charming his quill to fill in the required paperwork that included transferring sufficient funds from muggle to wizarding money and the like, eliciting numerous 'incredibles' from her Father - much to Mr Gundeons apparent delight. He seemed to positively bounce with glee every time his magic got a reaction. Hermione was also moderately interested to hear that the wizard bank, Gringotts, had suffered a failed attempted break-in less than a day before explaining why she would not be visiting the goblin run bank today.

Finally, when she thought her hand might drop off if she had to sign one more piece of parchment, Mr Gundeon bounded out of his chair and announced they were finished.

He promptly threw his office door open magically and escorted them through the streets of London, where he attracted a great number of curious looks from passers-by, to where they now stood.

"Incredible!" repeated Hermione's Father.

Gregor beamed. "It is rather, isn't it? This is my favourite part of the job."

Hermione could well believe it. If anyone had remained unimpressed by Mr Gundeon's earlier displays of magic, even the most cynical would be bowled over by the sight before them. A cobbled street wound away from them, lined with rickety looking buildings, some leaning at what appeared to be impossible angles, putting the Tower at Pisa, that she and her parents had visited three summers ago, to shame. Each shop appeared to specialise in a different branch of magic with Apothecary's, Bookshops, Cauldron retailers and more.

"Now," he continued, "I'll show you around and then leave you to get acclimatised, if you need anything, or when you want to leave, just ring this bell." He handed over a small silver bell to Hermione's Mother who looked uncertainly at it.

"You'll never hear this in the crowd," she said giving the tiny bell a shake, which, sure enough, Hermione, mere paces away, had to strain her ears to hear above the clamour of the bustling shopping street.

"Of course not," said Gregor bouncing up and down on his heels in an excited manner. "Ring the bell and I'll apparate to you," he finished as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Hermione noted, however, that neither of her parents had understood;

"Apparation," she recited verbatim from her studies with her elder self. "The ability to teleport from one location to another almost instantly," she finished with a pang of regret that she still hadn't seen her elder self since she had received her letter. It was not uncommon for the elder Hermione to be absent for several days, sometimes a week, but Hermione couldn't shake the nagging feeling that something was very wrong.

"Incredible," repeated her Father as if he were a broken record. "You can do that?"

"Oh yes," said Gregor happily - he really did seem to enjoy his job Hermione noted. "That and more," he added offering a wink in Hermione's direction. "Although I have a feeling not as much as young Hermione here is going to be capable of. She's the most knowledgeable witch of her age I've ever met - muggle born or not."

Hermione felt the blush rising to her cheeks, thankful that her parents were used to her bookish tendencies and would assume she had simply read up on all of this in the last week. She busied herself by pretending to be extremely interested in the brickwork of the archway they stood in.

"Well then, must get on, lots to buy," announced Gregor, perhaps sensing her discomfort at the attention and led the way into the heart of the cobbled street.

_Deja Vu_. It wasn't exactly the right word for what Hermione was feeling, for she knew with cast iron certainty that she had never before set foot in Diagon Alley, but, thanks to the briefings she had received from her elder self she felt like she knew each pebble of the cobbled street by heart. The family trotted along behind the irrepressible Gregor, trying to stay in a group, which, in the narrow confines of the crowded street, was proving difficult. Mr Gundeon pointed out various vendors and shops sending the trios heads swivelling in all directions, much like those of the owls of _Eyelops Owl Emporium_ they had just passed.

Hermione drank it in. For two years she had been part of this world, but apart from it at the same time, and now she was here it was more wonderful and exciting than she'd have ever believed possible.

"Start with your school uniform eh?" called Gregor over his shoulder after pointing out _Quality Quidditch Supplies_ on their right. "Madame Malkin'll see you right."

"Actually," piped up Hermione, trotting forward from her parents slightly to make herself heard. "I was rather hoping to go straight to Ollivanders."

_A magic wand_. To Hermione it was more than just a way to channel her magical energies, it was a symbol, a link to the world she had felt separated from for so long. It seemed only fitting, _and logical_, her practical self added, that her first purchase be just that.

Mr Gundeon stopped dead, and Hermione nearly ran straight into the back of his ankles.

"Ollivanders eh?" he quizzed, turning to face her and eyeing her with a curious gaze that Hermione felt she might wither under. She took a comforting glance to her side to find her parents at her shoulder. "Why of course!" he exclaimed after what seemed like an age, with more of his usual vigour. "Smart girl this one," he proclaimed offering a wink to Hermione's parents. "Ollivanders it is then."

Ollivanders was a thin, glass fronted shop that stood towards the far end of Diagon Alley, squashed between a second hand robe shop and Gambol and Japes. A tattered black sign read in peeling golden letters;

_Ollivanders_

_Makers of fine wands since 382BC_

"Not much to look at I'll grant you," said Mr Gundeon almost apologetically, gesturing towards a single wand on a faded velvet cushion in the window. "But you'll find no finer wand maker than Ollivanders. I got my own here when I was your age," he added sotto voce to Hermione directly, as he twiddled, what she assumed to be the wand in question between the index and middle finger of his right hand.

Her parents starred at the tiny shop front with matching unreadable expressions on their faces, but Hermione couldn't help herself - she was grinning from ear to ear. Ever since she had first accepted the truth about herself from the woman she then knew as Mrs Umbridge she had dreamt of this day - her own magic wand. She had, of course, tried to use her elder selves wand, but with no success. "The wand must choose the witch," the Other Hermione had consoled soothingly, informing the young Hermione that even her own magic was not as strong when using the wand that she had stolen in her escape to the past. So it was preposterous, the Elder Hermione postulated, to expect an untrained, under-age witch to get an alien wand to work for her at all.

Hermione wished again that her elder self could be with her today, and resolved that upon her return home she would go and wait in the library, all day of need be, to find her mentor.

"Right then," began Gregor, now swinging his arms back and forth causing his robes to flutter in the breeze he was creating; he seemed completely incapable of remaining still. "I'll leave you here so you can explore at your leisure. Friendly word of warning though; stick to the main street and don't go wandering down any side alleys," he concluded in a conspiratorial tone as he handed over what appeared to be a map of Diagon Alley to her Mother.

"Just remember, give me a ring if you need me."

Without waiting for acknowledgement or agreement he spun on the spot, his robes whipping about him, and, with a sound like a firecracker, disappeared.

"He was a strange sort of fellow," said Mrs Granger examining the map she had been given with an arched eyebrow.

"I don't know," replied Mr Granger. "I found his attitude rather...contagious." He finished by wiggling his eyebrows and mimicking one of their guides heel bobs, looking expectantly to his daughter, apparently expecting her to laugh.

Hermione managed a weak smile, but her stomach seemed to have jumped into her throat and was churning uncomfortably now the moment she longed for had arrived "S - shall we?" she asked falteringly, looking longingly towards the wand shop.

"Witches first," offered her Mother with a sympathetic smile and an outstretched arm.

Taking a deep breath, Hermione nodded, squared her shoulders and strode towards the shop.

A tinkling bell rang out somewhere as she pushed the door ajar, and Hermione briefly wondered why her parents were calling Gregor back already, before she registered that it sounded to inform the shop keeper of a prospective customer.

Ollivanders looked hardly any more impressive from the inside than from the street, mused Hermione as she entered the dimly lit store, the dust motes swirling around her in the bright sunlight streaming in the shops small window. Her parents followed at her heels, and, without looking she could imagine that her Mother and Father would be wearing expressions of weary interest and unconfined awe respectively.

Only one small stool with spindly legs (that looked as though they had recently been repaired) adorned the front of the shop, on which Hermione nervously took a perching position, her parents flanking her at each shoulder.

She had pictured this scene many times in her minds eye, but not once had she pictured the sense of..._foreboding_, that she felt now. There was something distinctly creepy about this store, and from the way that neither of her parents had yet to utter a single syllable, they felt it too.

"Well hello," came a smooth voice that made Hermione jump, so suddenly had its owner appeared that at first she believed it to be a disembodied voice. Instead, she saw, it issued from an elderly wizard with flyaway white hair and strange starring, moon like eyes. "Well don't just sit there, come, come."

"Mr Ollivander?" enquired Mr Granger, tentatively stretching out his right hand to shake the elder man's own. When the gesture was left unreturned he settled for resting it on Hermione's shoulder.

"Ah! Muggles." It was not a question, and he eyed the trio curiously with those wide eyes making Hermione shift uncomfortably in her chair - she had the distinct impression that Mr Ollivander, if that was who this proved to be, was trying to read their minds. "Well as you've come to me for a wand at least you have good taste. Garrick Ollivander at your service." He gave a little bow to accompany his crooked smile. "Perhaps you know that every Ollivander's wand contains a core of a powerful magical substance..."

"Either a Phoenix feather, Dragon heartstring or Unicorn hair," supplied Hermione earning herself an encouraging shoulder squeeze from her Father and renewed scrutiny from Mr Ollivander.

"Have we met Miss..." Mr Ollivander wanted to know, his face now very close to Hermione's own.

"G-Granger," Hermione stammered, finding herself unable to look away from those misty eyes, her own nervous face reflecting back. "And n-no, we've never met."

"Curious," muttered Mr Ollivander retreating to the back of his store and out of sight whilst Hermione shared anxious glances with her parents.

"You see Miss Granger," came the voice of Mr Ollivander, growing in volume as he returned to his position behind the counter. "I remember every wand I have ever sold. _Every_ wand," and he fixed her with a piercing gaze. "That is until now."

As if by way of explanation he placed a long, thin, dusty box on the counter in front of him.

A smile tugged at the corner of Hermione's lips as she recalled her elder-selves story of her 'wand fitting' with Mr Ollivander. The story, as she recalled, involved The Other Hermione trying countless wands of all lengths and construction but to no avail. Mr Ollivander, she had learnt, far from being disappointed seemed to enjoy the challenge of a difficult customer and had even gone so far as to remeasure every conceivable parameter of her doppelgänger (including the length of her fingernails) before finally finding the right wand; Vinewood and Dragon Heartstring.

_This isn't the way this is supposed to happen_, she thought wildly. _He hasn't measured me, or quizzed me, or..._

The rest of her thought went unfinished as Mr Ollivander prompted; "Well come on, don't be shy," and removed the lid of the box by way of invitation.

Hermione had to stand on tip toes to see over the high counter but the wand before her made her breath catch; a little over ten inches, vinewood and she would bet it's core was Dragon Heartstring. _He knows! _she realised_. Somehow he knows._

_"_Well give it a wave then," Mr Ollivander commanded, fixing Hermione with an intense look of mingled curiosity and uncertainty.

Hermione grasped the handle and immediately felt a tingle of warmth run up her right arm. This was the moment she had pictured; she had no intention of foolishly waving the wand as another Hermione had done in another time. Her elder-selves wand may not have recognized her magical signature, but, being the diligent student she was, she had practised repetitively and memorised some basic spells movements and incantations.

She pointed the wand tip at the now empty box and intoned the words "_Wingardium Leviosa_," accompanied by a swishing and flicking movement of her wrist she had learnt by rote.

She felt every eye of the small room on her as the box wriggled, before levitating a few inches into the air. She heard a breath catch in her Mothers throat, and a whispered 'incredible' from her Father as she guided the box to settle back on the table.

"Remarkable," exclaimed Mr Ollivander snatching the wand from Hermione's hand. "Ravenclaw for sure," he added, although to her ear he sounded somewhat perturbed. _Perhaps_, she mused, _he is disappointed at how quickly I found my wand. _

_Ravenclaw? _Mouthed her Mother catching her eye and Hermione remembered she had never explained Mr Gundeons earlier reference.

"Its one of the schools houses," she explained. "Only the best and brightest are selected as a Ravenclaws."

Her Mothers smiled affectionately at her only daughter and her eyes warmed, the look clearly saying_, I would have expected nothing less._

Turning her attention back to Mr Ollivander, Hermione noted that he was now placing the wand, her wand, reverently back in it's box, wrapping it in plain brown paper and string. He still seemed to be muttering something under his breath.

"Sorry?" said her Mother, speaking aloud for the first time in the store. "Would you mind telling us _what_ is curious?" She had obviously caught something of the shopkeepers muttered comments.

"It is curious, Mrs Granger," replied Ollivander without looking up. "Because as I say I remember every wand I have ever sold." Mrs Granger nodded, understanding the elderly wizard had more to add. "Yet I am certain - _certain_ that I have sold this wand before," he finished shaking the box to illicit a rattle from inside as if to punctuate his point.

"You are mistaken then."

"I am never mistaken," was all he said by way of reply as he placed the now wrapped box back on the counter, his glassy eyes once again racking over Hermione as if trying to see inside her very soul.

Now certain, despite the impossibility of it, that Mr Ollivander knew, or at least strongly suspected something, Hermione wanted nothing more than to snatch her box, pay, and vacate the store as quickly as possible. But knowing that would arouse more suspicion from her parents, she forced her hand to calmly reach for the neatly wrapped box and offered her thanks.

Taking his cue her Father stepped forward to handle to finances, handing over, under Mr Ollivanders supervision, Seven Galleons and three sickles, "No, no. The silver ones!" he had corrected before bowing them from the shop leaving them squinting in the mid-day light outside.

"Now he," agreed Mr Granger, pointing a thumb back at the wand shop, "was a strange sort of fellow."

Hermione felt herself relax as her Mother made a nondescript noise and agreed wholeheartedly. "I know. What a load of nonsense. Remembering every wand he's ever sold? Impossible!"

Smiling broadly once more, Hermione tucked her wand safely in the bag she carried hitched over one shoulder, and managed to restrain the urge to skip alongside her parents as they made for Madame Malkin's robe store that Mr Gundeon had recommended. They had almost reached the entrance when a large family all but fell out of the shops front door almost colliding with the Grangers.

All had flaming red hair, and, save for a plump woman and a small girl, all were boys of various ages between perhaps ten and sixteen.

"So sorry dears," apologised the woman in a kindly voice, who must have been the Mother, before turning to two boys who looked to be identical twins and continued in an exasperated tone, biting off every syllable; "Fred! George! What have I told you about those toe tripper charms?"

"We were trying to get Percy!" The boys protested in unison.

"Don't see why he gets to have an owl_..." _said one.

_"...and_ new robes!" finished the other.

"Because," the woman continued in a dangerous tone. "Percy - is - a - _prefect_." Both the twins rolled their eyes at that. "And," continued their mother sternly, "I would hope you follow more of your brothers example next term after your report from last year. Now come on. We'll be able to get everything you boys need in the second hand store."

The youngest boy caught Hermione's eye and gave her a small_, what are you gonna do? They're my famil_y kind of shrug as he was dragged away by his Mother who continued to berate the older twins.

"See ya at Hogwarts I guess." he said as he passed before disappearing into the crowded street.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Author Musings<strong>_

_I really enjoyed writing this chapter. Its a lot lighter and fluffier than the AU chapters focusing on the older Hermione, and its a nice change of pace to writing the darker world that the Other Hermione lives in. _

_Obviously I am running out unwritten moments for Hermione before she heads off to school, so there will inevitably be some retelling of canon the next few times we re-visit this story arc. _

_When I originally posted this story some of my reviewers wondered why I needed to re-visist canon at all – surely the foreknowledge provided by the other Hermione would alter history. In short it does, but the Other Hermione's story is very unfamiliar to the one we all know (as we shall see as we moved forward). Our Hermione is going to change a great deal from the Other Hermione's time at Hogwarts but that will merely shift it to the canon universe to which we are all familiar - as such I will not be re-telling canon, but reviewing it in a series of flashbacks to tell the eleven year old Hermione's story._

_Disclaimer: I own nothing of Potter. Oh except Gregor – he's basically me after all :) _


	6. Chapter 5

_**Disclaimer: **JK owns the lot, I'm just playing at being a writer._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Five - The Second Prophecy<strong>

**5th November 2023**

Conciousness washed over Hermione in waves. The distant sound, that at first she mistook as that of a thousand marching ants, reached her ears. _Clocks_, she realised dimly. Hundreds and hundreds of clocks - all ticking incessantly.

An indeterminate amount of time later (ironically her internal body clock seemed unable to measure the passage of time accurately at present), the sensation of the cool hard floor she lay sprawled on filtered through to her brain.

_Am I dead?_ she wondered idly as she savoured the simplicity of feeling the solidity beneath her.

Full awareness returned to her moments later; she instantly wished it hadn't. Her mouth tasted as if someone had sprinkled iron fillings into it whilst she lay unconscious and her every nerve ending seemed to be on fire. It was a pain more profound than anything she had ever experienced before. Even her countless Cruciatus disciplinings bore not even a passing similarity to the agony she now endured. Despite herself, a soft moan of agony escaped her lips.

Every breath was a tortuous effort, as her chest heaved, trying, and failing she realised grimly, to draw in enough precious oxygen._ I'm not dead. I'm dying._

Compartmentalising her brain against the pain, in a way that only those who had been victims of long term torture were capable of, she attempted to conquer the pain that raged through her body. In an attempt to shut it out she focused on the other details - albeit with only partial success against such an onslaught. She felt the cool smoothness of the floor pressed against her cheek and smell of the musty stale air, mixed with the unpleasant odour of her own sweat. The metallic taste of her own blood in her mouth, and, through closed eyelids, she could make out the glow of artificial lights once and for all dispelling her briefly held belief that she must, in fact, be dead.

With great effort she forced her eyes open and squinted around the room. Her vision was fuzzy and the room seemed to spin dizzyingly about her. She blinked several times in a vain attempt to clear the spots from her eyes and focus on the room. Slowly, but without any real improvement in the clarity of her vision, her eyes adjusted to the at first dazzling light allowing her to at least recognise her surroundings. She recognized it as the time room, although she had no memory of how she came to be lying prone on the floor. The clocks that surrounded her on all sides recorded the time as just before six o'clock, although, whether that was morning or night, she did not know.

She screwed her eyes shut once more, willing her brain to recall the details. She had been running; of that much she was certain. But from who? And why?

A single word passed across her mind; _Goyle_.

But that couldn't be right. Goyle was dead.

Hermione winced as her memories flooded back like a torrent causing her to gulp in a sharp intake of breath which burned her aching ribs.

She _had_ been running; running from Goyle; Goyle, Crabbe and the other faceless death eaters. She had been trying to escape, but they had cornered her; taunted her; laughed at her.

She forced the bile back down her throat as the memory of Goyle's death returned. They had killed him. _Murdered_ him. For nothing more than because he presented Hermione with a bargaining tool to secure her release. Was life so worthless to them?

A tear ran down her cheek where it pooled on the hard floor as she recalled her vicious pleasure in seeing the light leave his eyes. _I'm nothing like them, _her mind raged internally in a vain attempt to convince herself that she was better than those she fought against, although her newly re awoken inner voice added snidely - _you're also nothing like the person you used to be_.

She had fled again, she remembered now, finding, by chance the very room she had sought - the Time Room. Her last memory was that of three death eaters, their face's obscured by their low hanging hoods, bursting in and cursing her.

She remembered the flash of green light and then...nothing. Nothing until waking up here.

_But I couldn't have been hit by the killing curse_. She protested inwardly. _I'd be dead!_

_But_, suggested the rational Hermione from deep within, _perhaps the time distortion of the time turner affected the curse in ways nobody has ever considered._

Hands trembling, as if watched in the stuttering slow motion of an ancient muggle video recorder, she reached towards the front of her robe. Calloused fingers skimmed over the rough fabric of the nondescript robe given to all slaves, until, a few inches above the start of her breast bone her fingers traced a jagged hole in the material. Tipping her chin forward as far as she could, she could make out a large, roughly circular hole in her robe which corresponded to what could only be described as a scorch mark, about the size of a dinner plate, tainting her already unhealthy looking grey skin. As she watched, she realised with horror that the mark was growing larger, almost imperceptibly, but undeniably, the blackened outline was edging outwards, like a ripple expanding on a pool of water.

_Footsteps_.

She released a rattling breath she was unaware that she had been holding and strained her addled senses to focus on the noise. Although her hearing remained fuzzy, like someone was holding a pillow over each ear, she could clearly make out, above the sound of her frantically pumping blood in her ears, the hurried footsteps in the corridor outside. Fate apparently didn't wish to let her dwell on her injuries

She realised with a start that she didn't have any idea as to how far she had travelled back in time, she had taken a guess as to the number of rotations. Nor was she aware of how long she had lain undiscovered in the time room. It was entirely plausible that, at this very moment, she was - the other her that was - being hunted in these corridors.

If she had the strength she would have massaged her eyes with her fingers - temporal physics had always given her a headache, but regardless of the dizzying permutations of time travel one thing was clear - _I can't remain here_.

There was only one chance.

With an incredible effort that seemed to consume every last ounce of her strength, she lifted a quivering hand to the hourglass still hung around her neck, and turned it once.

Slowly at first, just a few seconds at a time, then progressively much faster, the hands of every clock around her began to move backwards, scientific curiosity overwhelming the urge to simply surrender to the darkness that hung at the corner of her vision and slip back into unconsciousness.

Dizzy though she was, through sheer force of will she forced her eyes to remain open, knowing that if she didn't, she may never wake again, urging herself to remain focused on one particularly large, and frankly ugly, grandfather clock on the wall opposite her.

Hermione's internal clock estimated that perhaps fifteen seconds had passed subjectively for her when the clocks hands began to slow, before coming to a brief halt, then once more starting the slow march of their more usual clockwise direction.

Hermione felt the hold of the time distortion on her body weaken, and then release all together, confirming two of her theories simultaneously:

Firstly that, quite logically, for each turn of the tiny hour glass, she would travel one hour into the past. Hermione allowed herself a small smile of approval at that - the magical world was occasionally frustratingly unordered, but this at least, seemed entirely predictable.

Testing her limbs also confirmed her second theory: Her body still felt leaden and lethargic, but, no longer as if it were ablaze. Her breathing too seemed less laboured. Certainly her stomach muscles still worked furiously to force her lungs to draw down enough air, but the lack of dizziness and greater visual acuity suggested that here, in the past, they were succeeding in that endeavour.

She managed, although still with great effort, to force her body into a half sat up posture, propped on her elbows behind her, allowing her to examine more closely the blackened hole in her chest. Her heart lifted slightly when she noted that it was measurably smaller in this time line than in her previous jump - perhaps now the size of a saucer.

It now seemed clear that she had indeed been hit by at least one, perhaps as many as three killing curses. But thanks to some, as yet unknown interaction, between the curse and the forming time distortion effect of the time turner, she had lived to tell the tale.

_Lived! _The word resonated through her brain. The practical part of her mind drawing together snippets of information, trying to find the pattern that her subconscious had stumbled on.

If she had the strength she would have slapped her palm to her forehead; _The Boy Who Lived_. She recalled the words of the be speckled woman from the prophecy with crystal clarity_. The one with the power to save the Boy Who Lived comes close_r, but she hadn't been able to place the reference till now.

Why hadn't she remembered him before? She was not the first to survive the killing curse. There had been another - _The Boy Who Lived - _Harry Potter. She remembered fondly the small boy with the raven black hair, piercing green eyes and lightning bolt scar she had known at school. She had had a schoolgirl crush on him if the truth be known. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

Perhaps, she recalled sadly, because no one had called him that in decades - getting killed by Voldemort in his first year at Hogwarts all those years ago would do that to a reputation, but she had known him, albeit only as a passing acquaintance - after all, Ravenclaws and Gryffindors rarely interacted on a social level.

His parents had been singled out and killed by Voldemort when he was just a baby, but when the dark lord had turned his wand on the infant Potter his curse had, inexplicably, failed, rebounding on the dark lord himself.

Voldemort, close to death and powerless, had fled abroad to an exile that would last a decade.

No one knew the reason the Potter's were targeted that night, nor how a child of barely a year old had managed to banish the greatest dark wizard of all time, but his victory had earned him fame and notoriety in the wizarding world second to none.

Until, that was, he faced Voldemort once more, the encounter still shrouded in mystery to this day. Rumours abounded that Harry had entered the caverns under the castle in search of Voldermort, to finish the job it was surmised, but the tables had been turned - Voldemort triumphed, and, in doing so, returned to full strength.

For a brief time afterwards he had been spoken of in hushed whispers as_ The Boy Who Died_, but, as the darkness took control of the wizarding world he wasn't spoken of at all, becoming little more than an historical footnote. Aside that is, from a deluded few who believed him to be immortal and that he would return to defeat Voldemort once and for all, talking of him as some sort of _chosen one_.

It appeared however, Hermione realised, that those derided few, were right; _for only the Boy Who Lived can defeat the dark lord_, the shawled woman had said.

Pieces of the mental jigsaw now fell into place in a cascade; each new revelation shedding light on the events that led to the world being overwhelmed by the dark side.

_The Potter's hadn't been targeted that night,_ she realised. _Harry_ _was_.

_Because? _

_Because, Voldemort knew of the prophecy. _

_So why didn't he come after me too? s_he wondered.

_When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, _must_ be the truth_, she rationalised, remembering the words of one of her favourite authors.

Logic dictated that there must have been another prophecy. One that foretold of Harry defeating the dark lord, but offering no mention of her_. Voldemort never knew about my role_, she realised. _Or lack thereof_, her inner self pointed out. _You barely knew him, let alone be in a position to be the one to save him_.

Her path forward, or more truthfully _backwards_, now became very clear to her. It was obvious that the closer she travelled in time to the moment of the killing curse striking her, the closer to death she would move. She had no proof of course other than her own observations, and whilst Hermione Granger was usually a stickler for proof, for tangible facts, she _knew_ it to be the truth. So, if she wanted to live long enough to act on the prophecy she would have to travel back further and hope that she had enough time left to do what must be done, for again, although she had no evidence to support her theory, she knew she was dying regardless of how far she tried to run from the casting of the Killing Curse - a longer more drawn out death that most for sure - but dying never-the-less.

She noted with grim determination that this knowledge did not affect her as much she might have imagined. _Perhaps_, she thought in a detached sort of manner, _because death, to the well trained mind, is just the next adventure_. She knew she had heard those words spoken before, but in her weakened state she could not recall by whom.

She also now recognized that she would have to travel back at least before the point of The Boy Who Lived's death - "_Harry_," she reminded herself aloud, letting the unfamiliar word roll around her mouth. Preferably with a few months or perhaps even years in hand to prepare - assuming she had that long - to understand and act of the remaining prophecy, for she had no inkling to what the prophecy had meant by _the triagon of light._

That left her with two tasks to perform in the here-and-now:

To travel back far enough in time to regain her strength, that even now, she could feel being sapped by the curse, now that time had resumed it's unstoppable march forwards. And secondly to investigate the possibility of a more efficient way to travel back decades rather than just hours. Her mental faculties, weakened though they were, still proved sufficient to calculate that a jump of a single year backwards would require the time turner to be rotated approximately eight thousand, seven hundred times. Moreover, she would need to jump back more than a quarter of a century based on her best guesstimate - an unacceptable chore when she was still deep inside enemy territory and could be discovered at any moment.

Summoning her resolve she reached for the time turner and leapt back.

oOo

It had taken many more jumps than Hermione had envisioned to regain enough strength to so much as stand, let alone consider resuming her escape attempt. She had now jumped back a total of forty seven hours and was relieved to find, as the now familiar tug of the time portal released her, that the room was empty.

It had not always been so smooth sailing.

Working methodically she had jumped back an hour at a time and had suffered some close shaves along the way. On her fifth jump, and still unable to rise much beyond a kneeling position, she had found the room occupied. An elderly man with a long grizzled beard sat in a chair just visible through the doorway to one of the offices. Judging by the way he hunched over a project of some sort on his desk he was tall, but something told Hermione that even extended to his full height he would still be stooped.

Perhaps, she had mused in hindsight, he had set his wand to alert him to any intruders, or perhaps he just sensed he was being observed, the way you just _know_ someone is looking at you, even with your back turned. Still, regardless of the motivation, the elderly man turned his dark eyes towards Hermione, which widened in surprise as he caught sight of the uninvited guest knelt before him. If her presence there hadn't been so dangerous to her chances of survival she might have laughed at the dumbfounded look of confusion on the elderly man's face, which, Hermione was certain, would have turned quickly to alarm and anger if she hadn't been so swift in reversing time once more.

She had been more careful since. Reminding herself crossly that she had procured a wand, she cast a disillusion charm on herself, so that, to a casual observer at least, she would appear invisible.

Her penultimate jump had been her closest call. As soon as the time turner released her, her liberated wand began to vibrate alarmingly in her hand, as if trying to buck free. She gripped the coarse wood of the stolen wand as hard as her sweat slicked hands could managed determined not to relinquish her newly re-acquired ability to channel her magic - even if that magic felt clumsier and weaker with this unfamiliar wand. The wands strange behaviour was explained instants later.

"I've told you Crabbe, Malfoy put me in charge, so do as I say..." o_r I'll hex you_, Hermione supplied mentally as the voice of Goyle floated down the hall to her from beyond the grave. She could picture her erstwhile handler pointing his wand menacingly at the other death eater. "...What the?" finished Goyle, his voice clipped and laced with confusion.

"Damn!" she allowed herself to curse aloud. _His wand! Invisible or not, if his wand is reacting the same way as mine it'll lead them straight to me! _She realised grimly, noting that her wand waspointing directly at the patch of wall where the voices were emanating from, like a compass needle. She was willing to bet for certain that Goyle's was doing the same.

Her heart seemed to be performing a kind of drum roll against her chest and it made her slick fingers fumble with the hour glass as her other hand continued to battle the stolen wand. The door to the room opened, and a familiar black booted foot appeared at the entrance. Hermione was spared seeing the stunned look on her former captors face as she activated the time turner once more, causing the leg to first freeze, before retreating back into the frame in the now familiar high speed reverse of the Time Turner.

She remained still for a moment after the effect released her with her ears pricked, listening intently for any indication she wasn't alone, but detected none. She drew in a deep breath which she released as a sigh and noted, for the first time since she had been hit by the Killing Curses, that her body did not protest at the function.

The stolen wand now also lay docile in her palm so she pocketed it although she did not release her grip on her only means of defence.

Fortified to find her body responsive and pain free, she rose and made her way in confident strides to the cabinet that contained the time turners knowing exactly what she was looking for.

She was slightly surprised to note that the cabinet still held the very time turner that she wore around her neck. _But then, _she supposedfeeling another temporal headache coming on_, at this point in time I haven't removed it yet_.

Opening the glass doors carefully she perused the dozens of hourglasses on display with a more observant eye that she had been permitted earlier. On closer inspection each hour glass was slightly different; some contained more sand that others, whilst several were almost twice the size of the one she had hurriedly selected.

_If there's any logical to this, _she thought_, the bigger the glass, the bigger the jump through time_.

Wrapping her numb fingers around the chain of one of the largest she removed it carefully from it's stand. Despite it only being roughly twice the size of the first time turner she had selected, it seemed to weigh a hundred fold more.

As she hefted the lead weight like device she noted a small note affixed beneath. The thin ticker tape type paper had a single word scrawled on it – _annus. _Her mind instantly translated the Latin word for year, confirming her theory.

Bowing her head she pulled the delicate chain of the first time turner over her head, plucking out a few errant hairs as it caught on her bushy mane, and pocketed it - it could still prove useful after all – before she unclasped the chain of the heavier hourglass and fastened it round her neck where it hung like a millstone.

With a silent prayer to the Gods, she grasped the hourglass and embraced her destiny's past.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Author Musings<em>**

_Strangely although this chapter is now chapter 5, in my first draft this was actually the end of a very extended chapter 1, its last line inspiring the title of the story, that only had a (very uninspiring) working title of 'HJG' at that point. _

_The next update will be back with the younger Hermione and is titled Strangers on a Train, so it doesn't take a NEWT student to figure out that a certain scarlet steam train will feature. _


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six - Strangers on a train**

**1st September, 1991**

"Awake early dear?" questioned Hermione's Mother as she poked her head around the door frame to her daughters bedroom.

Hermione managed a weak smile and a muffled '_Mm hmm_' in answer, wondering idly if it would be more accurate to ask if she was up late.

She _had_ gone to bed early the previous night in the hope of a good nights sleep in preparation for the dawn start needed to get to London for eleven o'clock. Sleep, however, had proved illusive - she had tossed and turned all night, fuelled by nervous anxiety. The few hours restless sleep she did manage to snatch were filled with peculiar dreams that, although she couldn't recall the details, left her with a distinct feeling of unease. She had awoken groggy and bleary eyed at five o'clock, feeling worse than if she had not gone to bed at all.

Going back to sleep wasn't an option, and studying her bedrooms ceiling would achieve little. Flinging her bed covers off her body she had risen, quietly dressed in a pair of jeans and a plain button down cardigan. She had briefly toyed with the idea of dressing in her new Hogwarts robes, but decided against it, and instead planned to change into her robes on the way.

She had checked and rechecked her school list, packed and repacked her large trunk, but, in the end, had been forced to accept that she was ready to go. In all honesty she had been ready for more than two weeks, having already memorised most of her text books and packed them carefully away days ago.

_You've waited two years for this day, _practical Hermione chided_. What's a few more hours_?

Frustrated, and, in an attempt to keep herself from pacing, she flopped to the floor cross-legged, her back resting against the wall, and pulled out the last book she had packed - it also happened to be the first one she had been given; Hogwarts: A History. She found herself returning again and again to the large tome, and, although she had memorised the text weeks ago, meaning the words slipped past her unseeing eyes, it gave her a comfort of sorts that she could not quite explain - in truth, she hadn't tried to.

Perhaps she would have felt less uptight if she hadn't felt so _isolated_. She couldn't speak to her family - they knew nothing of her secret purpose at Hogwarts - and the only person she could have confided in was still disconcertingly absent. The Other Hermione's worrying disappearance had now stretched on for over a month - despite Hermione's fruitless, almost daily visits to the library.

Not to be defeated she had begun to ask around. First speaking to the librarian (enquiring after her Mrs Umbridge alias of course), but, Mrs Umbridge it seemed, was not on their files.

She had gone further, contacting both directory enquiries to see if her Elder Self had a telephone line, or even a PO box, and then, finally, when that bore no fruit, she turned to the Police. The missing person report she attempted to open however, was also a dead end. She could provide no addition details, aside from a (false) surname and a general description of the Elder Hermione. The Policewoman on duty had told her, not unkindly, that there was little they could do.

"I just wanted to give you these," continued her Mother producing, what Hermione assumed to be, a freshly laundered wizarding robe.

"Thanks Mum," she said gratefully as she rose from the floor, working the kinks out of her neck that had formed from being hunched over for who knew how long. She hugged the heavy tome she still carried to her chest breathing in the pulpy aroma of it, as if that action alone would give her the answers she sought, before placing it back on the top of her still open truck.

Her Mother must have caught the gesture."Hermione, Is everything alright?"she asked.

Hermione attempted to arrange her features into what she hoped looked like a sincere smile, but, despite herself, she released a deep sigh, her shoulders sagging dejectedly. "I - I know I should be looking forward to this," she began falteringly. "Bu - but I'm just not sure I can..." _save the wizarding world_, she finished inwardly as she flopped to the bed, knowing her Mother could have no idea what was going on in her mind. The nagging loneliness. The _pressure_ she felt.

"Oh Hermione," began her Mother gently. "I had - _We_ had no idea you felt this way. We thought you were happy," she finished taking a seat next to her only child, her brown eyes warm and brimming with moisture she appeared to be fighting hard to control for the sake of her daughter.

"But I am happy Mum," Hermione replied honestly. "Happier than I've ever been. I know who I am now," _and I don't have to hide it any more_, she added silently. "B - but it's still hard. Hard to leave yo-you and Dad."

Emotion clogged her last sentence and her voice trailed away to nothing on the last syllables as she briefly permitted herself to believe that those were her only concerns - the same worries any eleven year old would have before going off to boarding school - magical or not.

Her Mother eyed her carefully as if expecting her to continue, perhaps sensing that Hermione was holding something back.

But, much as she wantd to, Hermione didn't elaborate. Instead she dropped her gaze and scuffed at the floor with her sock, feeling a nagging tug of guilt - not for lying, she really _was_ sad to be leaving them, but for being forced to keep secrets.

"And we'll miss you too Hermione."

Hermione found herself pulled into a fierce hug and tried to use it to convey how much she appreciated her Mothers support and love and she sensed her Mother attempting to assure her in return of the the pride they she felt for her. When they separated some time later, Hermione noted that her Mothers blouse was wet where she had rested her head, whilst a single tear ran down her Mothers cheek.

She wiped it away with the back of her hand and gave a soft sniff before composing herself saying, "We'll be leaving in an hour. Pop downstairs and get some breakfast. Your Dad's waiting for you."

oOo

Gregor Gundeon met them at Kings Cross station as planned at half past ten. Once again their irrepressible guide to the magical world had done little to disguise himself from the throng of muggle passengers making their way to the platforms. He was dressed today in robes of deepest scarlet which danced in the breeze being funnelled between the tight confines of London's cramped streets. Hermione even registered the tip of his wand poking out of his sleeve where it appeared to be held in some form of wrist holster.

"Excellent!" he proclaimed loudly when they were still several strides away from him. "Right on time. I have your tickets here," he finished, patting down several of his pockets, a slightly panicked expression in his eyes, before he produced, with a flourish, a rectangular ticket for the Hogwarts Express, with a look much the same as that of the best man at a wedding finding the rings in his _other_ pocket.

Hermione's Mother took the proffered ticket and read aloud; "Platform Nine and Three-Quarters?" That got a raised eyebrow. "Another of your little wizard jokes?" She asked dryly. Hermione was certain she was recalling the less than obvious instruction on their Liaison Office trip several weeks before.

Mr Gundeon beamed at her Mother, apparently completely unoffended. "Not at all, my dear Mrs Granger. If you'll follow me I'll show you how to find it."

After heaving Hermione's heavily laden trunk onto a trolley the foursome made their way quickly through the station, arriving at a nondescript barrier between platforms nine and ten.

Another stab of regret and worry passed through Hermione as Mr Gundeon explained how to get through the barrier, so closely did his words match those spoken by her Elder Self that they could have been quoting from the same text book. Subconsciously she realised her eyes were roving the cavernous station, hoping against hope to catch sight of The Other Hermione - here to send her off. But her doppelgänger distinctive bushy grey hair was nowhere to be seen. "...best do it at a bit of a run if you're nervous." Finished Mr Gundeon, apparently not noticing Hermione's inattentiveness.

Hermione nodded confidently, only half listening to their guide as he explained to her parents that their were muggle repelling charms in use so they should hold onto his arm tightly and ignore any sensations they might have that they hadn't locked the car, or left the kettle on.

Offering the crook of his arm to her Mother, Mr Gundeon gave Hermione an _after you_ gesture and a reassuring smile. "We'll see you on the other side."

Pushing her trolley forward at a brisk walk, Hermione headed for the very solid looking ticket booth. Intellectually, she knew there was a wrought-iron archway magically concealed behind it, but forcing her feet to break into a trot still went against her every instinct. Closing her eyes against a crash that she knew wouldn't come she sensed rather than saw herself pass through the barrier onto a crowded platform. Opening her eyes and turning she caught sight of her parents being escorted through, matching looks of wonderment etched of their features.

"Right then," called Mr Gundeon. "Keep together. Easy to get lost you know," and he pushed forwards into the crowd.

He was right. Wafting smoke from the gleaming red steam engine clouded the platform in a semi-permanent haze, making it difficult not to knock into the legs of one of the throng of students, family members, or one of the dozens of cats winding round their feet. Hermione kept catching snatches of disembodied conversations hidden in the mist intertwined with the sounds of squeaking trolley wheels and various animal noises.

"Here we are then," Mr Gundeon said happily bobbing on his toes gesturing towards a largely empty carriage.

Wordlessly Hermione took the handle of her trunk expecting her Father to take the other side as he had done by the car, but he was waved away by Gregor. "Please, allow me." He pointed his wand at the heavy trunk and intoned, "_Locomotor Trunk_."

Hermione recalled how much concentration it had required for her to levitate the small wand box off the counter back at Ollivanders, the realization of just how much she still had to learn settling on her unwelcomingly. _Am I ready for this_, she wondered

"There," said Mr Gundeon dusting his hands down as if he had partaken in some sort of arduous manual labour once he had safely stowed the trunk. "All done."

Hermione glanced at the clock overhead and noted that she had only a few minutes before the train left. Their guided must have followed her gaze, for understanding bloomed on his expression as he quickly took his leave, shaking each of them vigorously by the hand, obviously wanting to allow them a few moments alone before her departure. Hermione offered him her silent thanks for his empathy as he strode away, scarlet robes billowing in the haze.

Once the irrepressible Liaison officer was lost to the smoke shrouded scene, Hermione turned to face her parents feeling strangely self conscious and uncomfortable. _How do you say goodbye to the people who matter most to you in the world_, she wondered shifting her weight from one foot to another as she studiously examined the floor.

"Mimi - " prompted her Father gently, using the affectionate childhood name that only he was permitted to use. He was crouched in front of her, his right hand extended to cup her under her chin, raising her eyes to meet his.

There she saw the same uncertainty reflected back in her Fathers glistening eyes. No words were needed. Instants later she found herself pulled into a tight embrace that she returned fiercely, her Mother's arms intertwining around her back, sandwiching her between them.

How long they remained like that she did not know, their embrace only breaking apart as a strange hush crept over the platform, those same smoke shrouded, disembodied voice now whispering quickly to one another;

_"...it's that..."_

_"...the boy with the black hair?"_

_"...couldn't be . He'd only be..."_

_"...he'd be eleven..."_

_"...is it really that long ago?"_

Despite herself, Hermione let out a squeak of excitement, which she attempted to mask as a sob to her parents. _It's him!_ He was still quite a distance away and half hidden in the smoke, but how could it be anyone else? The messy raven hair, the hushed conversation. She'd bet her wand the figure had green eyes and a lightning bolt scar too - The Boy Who Lived - _Harry_ - was here. She could finally fulfil her destiny.

Sharing one last, all to brief, hug with her parents she indicated the clock and with dual nods of understanding she made her way to the train, or more accurately the carriage that Harry was attempting to lift his own heavy trunk into.

"_You'll need to befriend him early on. Make yourself invaluable to him_." The words of her Elder Self floated back across her mind as she strode purposefully across the platform towards him.

No. Not across the platform. Towards it. She had snagged her foot on something, and, off balance, arms flailing, tumbled to the hard floor, trying and failing to catch herself on her outstretched hands. She landed in a crumpled heap, her bushy hair falling into her eyes and blinding her.

Hands reached out from all sides manhandling her back to her feet. "Hermione! Are you all right?" It was her Father who had apparently rushed to her side first.

"Y – yeah," she stammered, noting with disappointment as she swept her hair from her face, that some strangely familiar faces had reached Harry first and were helping him load his trunk. _The twins_, she recalled from their _meeting_ in Diagon Alley. "I just tripped on..."

"TREVOR!" Called a round faced boy gleefully racing over and snatching up what appeared to be a large murky green rock.

"...that," finished Hermione lamely letting her voice trail away.

"Have you found your toad yet Neville?" called out another, long suffering voice.

"Got him Gran," the boy - Neville, Hermione assumed - called back as an elderly woman came into view through the murk. She was tall and thin and wore a truly revolting hat with what appeared to be a stuffed vulture perched on top.

"Come along Neville," ordered Neville's Grandmother. He offered Hermione a weak smile before promptly trotting off behind her.

"You too Hermione," instructed her Father indicating the clock once more, which now showed just a minute till departure, and ushered her up the steps onto the train. "We'll write to you every day."

The train began to move.

Hermione slammed the door shut and lowered the window so she could extend her upper torso out of it. The rapidly receding figures of her parents both held solitary hands of farewell aloft, both their eyes brimming with tears, their other hands clasped together.

A gaggle of smaller children, obviously not old enough to attend Hogwarts yet, ran alongside, a bright red shock of hair clearly visible amongst them all - the twins sister she recalled - stayed with the train longest; half laughing, half crying, until, she too became outpaced by the locomotive and dropped back waving frantically.

The track curved and the platforms fell from sight.

_I'm going. I'm finally going_, she though as she wiped her tear soaked cheeks on the back of her sleeves.

oOo

Her first intention had been to find Harry, the words of The Other Hermione still ringing in her ears, but the train was so busy with students, all of whom seemed much larger than her, searching for classmates and catching up after the long summer break, that she had found herself shunted into one of the compartments with several other students, who, judging from their small stature, were also all new pupils.

She realised during their introductions that Deja Vu was a feeling she was simply going to have to get used to:

She had to force away another wave of tears as a well spoken boy with curly hair introduced himself as Justin Finch-Fletchley, who Hermione already knew to be a muggle born like her, thanks to the list she had seen in professor McGonagall's hands way back in July. In the original time line he had been killed in his second year when Voldermort had opened the chamber of secrets to rid the school of those without magical parentage.

Terry Boot and Lisa Turpin felt like old friends, having been The Other Hermione's closest friends in Ravenclaw during her time at the castle. She could see why. Terry was warm and friendly, whilst Lisa had a great deal in common with Hermione. She, as it turned out, had grown up just one town over from Hermione where her parents ran a chiropractic surgery together.

The only other person present she knew already from the platform as Neville - the boy with the lost toad - although she couldn't recall her Elder Self ever mentioning him, although his surname, Longbottom, rang a bell.

Eventually, after several hours, the train quietened down allowing Hermione to push out of the compartment into the corridor beyond. She knew Harry had boarded the train only a few doors further up but she found her way blocked by the clattering arrival of a plump, dimpled witch pushing a snack trolley.

"Anything from the trolley dear?"

Hermione shook her head and dejectedly slunk back to her shared compartment which Neville appeared to be frantically trying to tear apart.

"Neville's lost his toad again," supplied Terry Boot rolling his eyes at the forgetfulness of their companion.

"He was right here," wailed Neville inconsolably. "My Gran'll kill me if I don't find him."

"Maybe he's made it out to the corridor," offered Lisa Turpin.

Neville abruptly stopped randomly pulling out the contents of his trunk, turned, and, as if noticing for the first time that the train did not comprise of just this single room, bolted for the door.

Hermione flopped to her seat, the robes she and the others in her compartment had already donned billowing behind her as she sprang, rather comically, to her feet once more.

Justin looked up as if expecting to see a flattened toad where Hermione had just sat. "Just going to help Neville," she blurted hurriedly and followed him out into the corridor. Her subconscious mind having registered that he had turned towards the rear of the train - meaning the way was no longer blocked.

She found Neville a few compartments along the train, glumly closing the door of a compartment. A red haired boy sat with what looked like a rather overweight rat on his lap, pointing a battered old wand at it whilst it slept. Watching intently was - her heart jumped into her throat beating painfully _- Harry_.

Taking a cleansing breath she all but collared Neville and slid the compartment door open once more. "Has anyone seen a toad?" she asked, noting vaguely how bossy and high pitched her voice sounded to her own ears. She hoped fervently that no one else was picking up on it. "Neville's lost one," she finished nudging Neville forward half a step.

"We've already told him we haven't seen it," said the red head she now recognized as the youngest boy from Diagon Alley.

Harry, who, as yet hadn't spoken, was regarding her with those deep green eyes that she had heard so much about with an intense gaze.

He wasn't quite as she had expected him to be, appearing both like _and_ unlike she had imagined him. He seemed small for his age, perhaps smaller than her, although she knew that was probably because of his age - she was almost a year older than him. It was however, hard to judge because of the overly large clothes he wore. Her eyes raked his hairline and found the familiar, and yet until now, unseen scar she knew he had received as a baby in the attack that left him orphaned.

Realising that she had probably remained silent too long she sat down next to Harry, probably slightly closer than good manners between total strangers allowed, looking for an excuse to prolong her stay. "Oh, are you doing magic? Let's see it then," she said, understanding why the red head was pointing his wand at the rat.

The red heads face paled, making his hair appear even more vivid, before saying uncertainly, "Er - all right."

"Sunshine daisies, butter mellow," he said having cleared his throat. "Turn this stupid, fat rat yellow."

He flicked his wand in a manner that Hermione thought more likely to take someone's eye out than transfigure a rat. She was right, the rat remained resolutely his original colour. She stifled a laugh by asking, "Are you sure that's a real spell?" with particular emphasis on the word real. The boy smiled weakly, but, before she could stop herself, she had started talking again. "Well, it's not very good, is it? I've tried a few simple spells just for practise and it's all worked for me," she added thinking back to the day in Diagon Alley whilst her practical mind all but screamed; _What - are - you - doing? You're supposed to be befriending Harry. Not boasting_.

_Damn_! She risked a quick look at Harry and noted the intense gaze he had fixed her with originally had become one of mild annoyance. _You're loosing him! Change the subject._

"Nobody in my family's magic at all, it was ever such a surprise when I got my letter, but I was ever so pleased, of course, I mean, it's the best school of witchcraft there is, I've heard - I've learnt all our set books off by heart, of course, I just hope it will be enough." She was babbling in a manner she often found herself doing when her mind raced ahead of her mouth.

_Calm down_, practical Hermione chided, _Introduce yourself._ "I'm Hermione Granger, by the way," and, quickly remembering she was not supposed to know Harry she added; "Who are you?"

Harry removed his gaze from her and fixed the other boy with a look she couldn't read clearly - was it dislike?

"I'm Ron Weasley," the red head muttered sullenly

"Harry Potter," supplied Harry needlessly.

"Are you really?" said Hermione feeling stupider by the minute. "I know all about you, of course." _What am I doing?_ She berated herself. _You can't tell him that! You're supposed to make friends with him, not tell him you've been studying him for nearly two years!_ "I got a few extra books out for background reading," she invented throwing out a few names of titles she had seen in Flourish and Blotts trying to cover her mistake, but Harry looked dazed and confused by her ramblings and only managed a weak "Am I?" in response.

In all of her imaginings and childish fantasy's of this moment she couldn't imagine it going worse than it was now. She knew she was coming across as rude, bossy and condescending but she couldn't stop herself. Calming herself as best she could she tried one last time a being friendly.

"Do either of you know which house you'll be in? I've been asking around and I hope I'm in Gryffindor, it sounds by far the best, I hear Dumbledore himself was one," she added lamely as neither boy made to reply. "But I suppose Ravenclaw wouldn't be too bad." She added sotto voce, verbalising another fear she had been unable to squelch - how was she going to get placed in Gryffindor? The Other Hermione had made it clear that it was imperative for her to be placed as such, but had been unable to offer any concrete assurances as to how to achieve that, only passing references that suggested the sorting hat did, on occasion, take personal preference into consideration.

She made a vague excuse to leave, muttering something about Neville's toad as she all but sprinted from the compartment to a deserted section at the very rear of the train where she collapsed gracelessly into a heap sobbing uncontrollably. I'_ve ruined everything_, she hiccuped to herself.

_A/M_

_So for anyone still trying to wrap your head around the concept, this line should explain everything: In the original time line he had been killed in his second year when Voldermort had opened the chamber of secrets to rid the school of those without magical parentage._

_So, unlike most timetravel fanfic's we are altering the timeline _towards_ canon. As such, it will get very boring, very quickly if we follow the younger Hermione through all of year one, so we will only visit this time frame again for missing moments or scenes where seeing things from Hermione's POV might help the story along. _


	8. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven - Once more from the top**

**Date - Unknown**

A cacophony of noise assaulted Hermione's ears. Distorted sounds, both familiar and yet strange seemed to be both omnipresent but nowhere at once. Her eyelids fluttered in an attempt to open, but they felt weighted down with tiny parcels of lead. _Where am I?_

The memories hit her like an express train - the escape! The time room! She attempted to shoot upright pushing hard with her palms against the soft ground but found herself braced by a strong pairs of hands and pushed back down. _I've been captured_, she thought in a surge of panic.

"She's coming around," came a voice she did not know, but it sounded soft - caring even.

_Soft_. The logical part of her brain locked onto the word. The feeling of it against her palms - a mattress? The gentle warmth of a hand on her shoulder, not restraining, but soothing her. There was nothing in her world that was soft and caring, not anymore.

"_Where am I?_" she tried to ask, but her mouth felt dry and numb as if she had suffered long exposure in a desert, her lips barely parting as a soft unfathomable sound escaped them.

The voices swirled around her again, the first voice calling out for others to join them. _Merlin! It was all so noisy._ If she could just have a moment to think. To focus.

Concentrating with all her might she attempted, as she had learnt to do during her years of incarceration and physical punishments, to shut off her awareness to her active senses in an attempt to find solace in the inner calm of her mind. There, freed from the assault of noise, aromas and what even through closed eyelids she recognized as bright lighting, she was able to assess her own condition.

Surreptitiously and carefully she attempted to flex and move each part of her body and was rewarded to find, that, although her muscles felt stiff and weary, she seemed to be largely unharmed.

Those tending to her had obviously noted her movements for someone was speaking to her, although the voice sounded muted and muffled, as if from a great distance. She lowered her mental defences and recognised the voice as that of the first speaker she had heard upon regaining awareness: "Can you her us?" The voice was asking. A faint feeling of recognition fluttered at the edge of her consciousness - she knew that voice.

Hermione opened her mouth to respond but again only a crackled whisper escaped her lips.

"Water," commanded the voice as Hermione felt hands lurch out from all sides of her. Instinctively she reached, and found, one to hold, which comfortingly returned her squeeze in a reassuring manner whilst the other hands hoisted her into a half upright posture. _A hospital,_ her rational mind concluded.

A thin straw was pressed to her lips which she drew water from gratefully. The cool liquid felt refreshing yet alien. Ice water she surmised; it had been a long while since she had access to such luxuries.

The hubbub in the room dropped away a little as Hermione felt herself being lowered back onto several soft pillows which kept her in a semi-inclined position. She sensed through her closed eyelids the shadow of a figure leaning close to her. "Can you hear us?" the woman, the healer Hermione assumed, asked again.

"Y - yes." Hermione was relieved that the word, although faint and raspy, did issue from her lips.

"You're in St Mungo's, dear," came the same calming voice she had first become aware of. "They brought you here as soon as they found you."

With effort Hermione forced her eyes open a crack, squinting in the too bright light that flooded through an open window. The woman who lent over her was dressed in standard mediwitch white robes and clearly followed Hermione's eye line, for she turned her head and nodded to an assistant to close the blinds to cut down the glare.

"No. Don't." Hermione commanded, her voice stronger and carrying across the room. She forced her eyes open fully and savoured the golden warmth of the suns rays on her skin - it had been _so_ long. The mediwitch shooed the rest of those attending to Hermione away in a brisk manner before returning her attention to her patient.

"How long?" Hermione asked titling her head on the pillow slightly so she could follow the woman's movements around the room, knowing the mediwitch would almost certainly respond to confirm how long she had been hospitalised, having no way of knowing her real question - _what year is it_.

She was right:

"A little over twelve hours dear," replied the mediwitch waving her wand to raise Hermione's bed into a fully sitting position and then bustling over to a wheeled trolley that had been left by one of the nurses where she scooped up a armful of potion's (presumably restoratives of some sort). Hermione drank them without complaint whilst the healer began asking her fairly standard medical history questions, starting with her name. Hermione, having quickly decided to continue with the last alias she had used, gave it as Jean Umbridge - it seemed logical, she had after all, already developed a convincing back story for her alter ego.

The mediwitch was a tall woman with short, curly auburn hair, partially hidden under her uniforms hat. She had a somewhat stern expression which spoke of a no-nonsense attitude, but her dark eyes couldn't hide a look of kindly concern that seemed all too familiar to Hermione, sending her eyes shooting to the name tag affixed to the witches robes; _Pomfrey_.

"Madame Pomfrey?" Hermione asked feeling dazed.

The mediwitch's expression softened into an almost maternal smile as she looked up from the medical history form. "Only at Hogwarts dear. Here I am Healer Pomfrey. Are you a former student?"

Hermione didn't answer aloud but managed a weak nod. She knew this woman. Or rather had known her during her own time at Hogwarts, but either her memories were playing tricks on her or she had suffered some sort of brain trauma because the witch who stood before her was both like and unlike the woman she had known. Something had gone awry.

Whilst it clearly _was_ Madame Pomfrey, there were inconsistencies that didn't sit well. Hermione remembered the gruff exterior and the dedication to her patients well (she had been on the receiving end of both during her schooling), but the simple fact that she no longer appeared to be working at the school sent Hermione's intellect down a path she hadn't wanted to consider.

What if she had miscalculated? If Madame Pomfrey was no longer at Hogwarts it was possible she had not travelled far enough back and that this was her former school nurse in a role after Hermione had fled the country and therefore far too late to hope to save The Boy Who Lived who would be long dead already.

Looking closer, however, gave Hermione reason to pause. Even the most professional glamour charm would have been unable to produce the results she saw before her: The greying thatch of hair she recalled was here replaced with what appeared to be the witches natural youthful colour, and the crows feet and worry lines, whilst still evident, were far less pronounced. If Hermione were any judge she would say this woman was at least a decade younger than the one she had known.

"Ma - Healer Pomfrey. What year is it?" Hermione asked uncertainly although she was fairly sure she wasn't going to like the answer, _either_ way.

"Yes. I wondered about that."

Hermione was right. She didn't like the answer, but not for the reason she expected. Some of that must have shown on her face for her erstwhile school nurse quickly explained. "You were brought here under Auror guard," the mediwitch said allowing her eyes to wander to the open doorway. Hermione followed her eye line - a burly man in dark robes stood with his back to them, at ease, but with wand in hand. Hermione cursed herself for not considering that. With the Ministry functioning in this time line, time travellers would almost certainly undergo some sort of vetting upon arrival. "Someone from the temporal office is coming out to interview you shortly," added Poppy confirming Hermione's line of thought.

Hermione nodded her understanding, feeling less apprehensive by the moment. After all, dealing with a ministry paper pusher had to be easier than attempting to escape the bastion of Voldemort's power base under death eater guard. She would just need to tread very carefully to avoid arousing suspicions.

"What year have you come from?" asked Pomfrey with interest.

"Classified." Hermione bit off the word, already settling on a plan of action for her interview and there was no better time to start instigating it than now, although she did feel a brief wave of guilt for lying to the kindly matron.

The healers jaw squared, but she made no further comment on the matter, smoothly switching topics;

"Well it looks like you have had a bit of a bumpy journey," she started with emphasis on the last word. "I've heard that can happen in cases of long transit," she added, but looked more thoughtful than if she were fishing for clues about the starting point of Hermione's jump through time. Her instincts proved accurate when healer Pomfrey retrieved yet another vial, "Better have this as well then. Pep up your magical core too."

Hermione drank the proffered potion and felt a warmth emanate from her insides, removing the residual stiffness in her limbs. She placed the empty vial back on her bedside table and looked expectantly at the healer.

"Oh. I haven't answered your question have I? realised Healer Pomfrey. "November first, nineteen eighty-one."

In spite of herself Hermione felt her right eyebrow shoot up to her hairline but she managed to hide most of the surprise from her features as she assimilated what the date signified. Something had gone wrong, she couldn't have mis-estimated this badly. She was a decade further into the past than she had intended. The first war was over, Voldemort had been defeated by an infant Harry Potter, mere hours ago from this time lines point of view, and wouldn't rise again for another eleven long years - _do I have that much time left?_ She wondered glancing in the direction of her AK scar hidden beneath her hospital gown.

Apparently she was muttering her thoughts aloud because Healer Pomfrey picked up her line of thought. "Incredible isn't it?" she began in an awed tone sounding more like the children she used to tend to, than a middle aged witch. "He who must not be named - gone! The war's over. People have been coming out of trances all day. It's finally over," she concluded, before adding as an afterthought. "Although this is all old news to you of course."

Hermione managed a weak smile and a nod. She had never believed in fate before, she still didn't know if she believed it now, but if, as Madame Pomfrey had indicated she had been unconscious for twelve hours, then, according to her quick calculations from the Healers clock pinned to her chest, she would have arrived in the past within minutes of Voldemort's almost total destruction at the hands of The Boy Who Lived.

The Healers brisk manners returned quickly for which Hermione was glad. Whilst Madame Pomfrey admonished her for risking her life for a little historical research (Madame Pomfrey seemed to be under the impression that Hermione had chosen this date for that very reason, Hermione was more than happy to allow her to continue under that illusion) Hermione allowed her mind to wander, considering this new, unexpected opportunity, as she was now coming to view her situation. Would it be possible, she wondered, with Voldemort weakened like he never was in her time, could she use her knowledge of future events to put an end to the second war before it even got started? She already knew enough about Voldemort's exile to know that, even as she sat in her hospital bed digesting the news, he would probably already be fleeing to the continent. Surely she could find him? Find him and kill the murderous bastard.

She hadn't forgotten the prophecy of course - _only the boy who lived can defeat the dark lord_ - and intended, at the earliest possibility, to study everything she could lay her hands on with regards Harry Potter and their, apparently conjoined destiny's. She had already postulated the existence of a second prophecy to her own, and it's likely content, but perhaps in it she could find clues to solve the frustrating riddle of her own. She still had no inkling to what the shawled woman referred to as 'the triagon of the light', or what power she might posses that others did not to ensure his survival.

"...anyway. It seems that no lasting damage has been done," the healer concluded pulling Hermione's thoughts back to the present.

Hermione fidgeted slightly in her bed, certain the mediwitch would have been unable to miss the fairly obvious signs of malnutrition and neglect at a glance, with only a cursory wand scan required to identify that she had been the victim of countless bone breaks and injuries over the years. She hoped fervently that Healer/Patient confidentiality stretched to those found unconscious in the department of mysteries.

"I am a little concerned about this though." said the mediwitch, indicating with her wand a tiny black scorch mark the size of a pin head approximately level with her diaphragm, that was visible through the slightly gaping join on the front of her hospital gown. "I've never seen anything like it."

"Its an old spell wound," Hermione only partially invented. "Its nothing really, I've learnt to live with it," she finished, inwardly cringing at her poor choice of words.

The mediwitch fixed Hermione with an intense look as if she were trying to perform Legilimency on her, before nodding curtly, apparently satisfied, and continued.

"Mr Muley from the temporal office is waiting to see you. Then we can dispense with them," she finished indicating the two guards who now stood at the doorway. They had obviously had orders to double the guard as soon as Hermione awoke.

oOo

"Its quite alright," Hermione lied smoothly, in reply to the apology her new companion had just issued her. "We have much the same procedures in my own time."

She had been briefly allowed out of bed to clean and change and Hermione had revelled in the simple pleasure of showering; perhaps for longer than she should have. A nurse had poked her head around the door to the bathroom to check on her, after what had most likely been deemed an excessive amount of time. She had dried, changed into fresh robes and attempted to tame her wild hair in a loose tail.

She now sat in one of the large, threadbare, but comfortable hospital armchairs nursing a mug of steaming tea. Opposite her and sitting ramrod straight, sat a rather officious looking wizard who had introduced himself as Mr Muley. He was middle-aged, wearing robes of unremarkable dark blue. His bald head was without a solitary hair, unless you counted the neat, pencil thin, grey goatee beard he sported.

To the casual observer they might have been co-workers enjoying a quick refreshment - the small coffee table that separated them even looked a little like one she had sat at in another life in Paris - but Hermione knew the appearance of normality was just that. The door to her private room was still under heavy guard.

"Quite, quite," he replied vaguely. "Name?"

"Jean Umbridge," Hermione supplied confidently having already committed herself to continue with the last alias she had assumed in her own time line

The wizard who had introduced himself as Mr Muley made a muffled sound of assent and scribbled a note on a roll of parchment he held. "I believe we have an Umbridge serving as a junior under-secretary to the Minister...Dolores," he added, his eyes moving off to the left, obviously recalling the details. "Any relation?"

"I believe I had a Great Aunt named Dolores," Hermione offered without pause.

Mr Muley raised both his eyebrows at that, an expression that Hermione had already learned was about as close to surprised as the man got. "Indeed?" He exclaimed. "No wonder you lost consciousness. That may be the longest recorded jump back. Surely you knew the dangers?"

Hermione schooled her features into a mask that implied that she did, although in reality only now were the pieces of the puzzle falling into place for her. It was apparent that short trips back in time were relatively common amongst wizards, however longer transits were less so. Perhaps owing to concerns regarding disrupting the time line or the large power demands required to perform such large leaps - or indeed both of those reasons. Hermione did indeed feel drained until Madame Pomfrey had offered her a potion keyed to her magical signature making it obvious that the time turner had drawn it's energy directly from her, perhaps explaining how she came to land at this point in time and a historic moment of such importance to her quest. She also knew that she had every intention of altering the time line - history could not be allowed to unfold as it had before - not that she planned to tell Mr Muley any of this.

"Forgive me. Of course you did. I just cannot fathom a reason to jeopardise yourself like that."

"And you know better than to ask..." supplied Hermione hoping she hadn't overstepped her role playing abilities with such a wild stab in the dark. But to her relief, and partial surprise, Mr Muley nodded.

"Quite so."

Apparently the concern about polluting the time line extended both ways, forcing Mr Muley to do his job with one arm tied behind his back - unable to ask the questions he needed to and risk him gaining too much knowledge of the future.

This made Hermione's task that much simpler. It meant that her release from suspicion relied solely on Mr Muley's subjective assessment of her, and, if Hermione was any judge of character - something she felt confident that she was having required the skill multiple times during her time on the run to assess potential new allies for trustworthiness - she believed that she was winning Mr Muley around.

"Reason for visit?" he enquired.

"Historical research," Hermione replied deliberately keeping her answer vague.

The temporal officer nodded, the hint of a sage smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. How common an answer is that, wondered Hermione.

"Well, that's all in order then Mrs Umbridge," and he produced a Ministry of Magic visitor badge, her false name printed on it along with the words 'Historical Research'. "I trust you'll enjoy your _time_ with us."

Hermione forced herself to chuckle at the poor attempt at humour and pinned the name badge to her chest hoping the disbelief at how easily she had gained access to the heart of the ministry did not show on her face.

"You are free to go," said the temporal officer standing to leave. "Oh," he added half way to the door. "You'll be needing these," and he produced both her wand and the Time Turners that were on her person. He placed them at the foot of her bed and swept from the room nodding curtly to the guards who fell into step behind him, leaving Hermione free to come or go as she pleased for the first time in more than a decade.

Hermione exhaled deeply and gathered up her only belongings. _Time to go to work. _She squared her shoulders and strode confidently from the room.

_Author Musings_

_We'll be with AU Hermione for two chapters now (this and the next), detailing her first few weeks in nineteen eighty one._

_Oh, I nearly forgot, Mr Muley is inspired from a star trek DS9 episode during which Sisko was quizzed by a 'temporal officer' on one of his own trips to the past – that character may even have been called 'Muley' but its been more than ten years since I've seen it so I could be wrong._

_I own nothing._


	9. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight - A World of Nothing **

Hermione extracted herself from the grate, and stepped gracefully out of the fireplace into the busy hallway that served as the main entrance to the British Ministry of Magic. She was surrounded on all sides by bustling witches, wizards and warlocks, bumping shoulders with a handful in the crowded space. A few disinterested apologies floated her way, but aside from that, few paid her any heed, busy as they were, going about their daily tasks within the government.

It was now the first week of December, marking just over one calendar month since her arrival in, what from her subjective view point, was the past. The joyous, almost party-like atmosphere that had permeated almost every member of the magical community following the dark lords defeat by the baby Harry Potter (whom some were already referring to as The-Boy-Who-Lived) had now faded somewhat - although only after an impassioned plea from the Minister for Magic herself, Millicent Bagnold. She had addressed the nation, reminding everyone involved of the necessity of the 'Statute of Secrecy', following three days of jubilant celebrations that even the muggles couldn't fail to notice.

The mood had since settled, and a sense of normality had quickly returned as the Wizarding world promptly fell back into a rhythm of day-to-day life, now mercifully devoid of fear from attack from the likes of Voldermort and his death eaters.

Checking the identification badge she had been given by Mr Muley was still in place on the front of her robes - identification she still couldn't believe the ease with which she had attained, granting her almost unobstructed assess to the Ministry - she fell into step with the shuffling hoards and made her way towards the main atrium.

So regular an occurrence had her visits to ministry become (or more accurately her visits to the department of mysteries far bellow the main foyer) that it was almost possible for her to believe that the feelings of unease and fear that this place awoke in her were mere ghosts of some forgotten dream - _almost_.

She had visited the Ministry almost daily since her arrival in nineteen-eighty-one, utilizing the almost unfettered assess her 'Historical Research' pass permitted her to draw together strands of information that she had until now only been able to guess at. The main focus of that research was her attempt to locate the prophecy she had theorised existed; a prophecy she believed had prompted Voldermort's attack on his family. She travelled back to the department of mysteries today, confident she was on the verge of a break-through. She believed she may have found a way to locate it.

As the swaying crowd spirited her away from the emerald tiled entrance hall, with it's rows of fireplaces set along each wall, her eyes fell upon the one thing that assured her that her nightmares about this place were not fuelled by an over active imagination, but, by the horror of the bleak world she had left behind - The Fountain of Magical Brethren.

To the greater wizarding community, Hermione knew, the fountain represented the harmony of the magical world. But to her, although no where near as gruesome as the stone monolith she had grown accustomed to seeing in the space, it still represented the worst arrogance of the wizarding world.

Whilst far more subtle than the 'Magic is Might' stone statue that adorned this space in her time - a statue which consisted of two wizards sat atop thrones; thrones made of hundreds of naked, writhing muggles - it still spoke of the perceived supremacy of wizards over other magical beings, a therefore by extension, non-magical peoples too.

The fountain of the brethren was formed of a large circular pool who's water was constantly in motion, swirled by jets of water emanating from five, larger-than-life representations of four different magical beings; a tall wizard accompanied by a beautiful witch; a Centaur; a Goblin; and a House-elf. The latter three, all represented beneath the wizarding couple and were depicted gazing up at them adoringly. In short it was an outright lie.

Hermione extracted herself from the throng and paused to look into the pool of clear water; it's bottom littered with hundreds of wizarding coins dropped in either by ministry workers donating their spare change to charity, or, as was happening now on the other side of the pool, a small boy making a wish on the drop of a bronze knut. The reflection gazing back at her still bore a slightly haunted look - but then so did many in this recently freed world so it had never garnered her unwanted attention - but her face was now fuller thanks to a diet that now including properly nutritious food, and, whilst relatively weak, the mid-winter sunlight, had done wonders for her formerly ghost like complexion. Even her hair had regained a little of its natural colour, although salt and pepper was probably the best description of her mane's colouring now.

She reached into her robes and extracted a silver sickle of her own and dropped it into the water, her silent wish probably very unlike the childish hope of the youngster who had deposited his own coin at the fountains based. _Please don't let it happen again._

How long she stood staring, unseeing into the pool of rippling water, she did not know, but she was pulled from her revere by a voice she recognised instantly; a voice she believed she would never to hear again.

"Yes Master." squeaked the instantly identifiable voice. "Dobby will remain here whilst Master fetches the Minister."

Hermione lifted her eyes from the pool, her gaze falling upon two figures; one which warmed her heart to see alive once more, whilst the other elicited a hatred so great that it made her blood boil.

"I know what my orders were, elf." snapped Lucius Malfoy prodding the tiny creature in the stomach with his cane as he spoke. "I do not need them to be incessantly repeated back to me."

"Dobby is sorry sir. Master is most wise." Dobby replied almost reverently.

"And stop your mindless simpering - " Malfoy continued menacingly, prodding the tiny elf several more times, causing him to stumble and fall to the hard floor, the pillow case he wore as sign of his enslavement ripping as he fell. " - Speak only if I command it."

"Leave him alone!" Hermione realised only retrospectively that she had spoken the words aloud.

"What, did you say to me?" said Malfoy, placing great emphasis the last word, turning his sneering glare away from Dobby and towards Hermione.

_Don't rise to it Hermione, _her inner voice counselled_. Malfoy is just a pawn. You have a chance to cut off the monsters head. Just don't draw attention to yourself_. But she couldn't contain her rage, so closely did Malfoy's bullying of his servant mirror her own treatment at the hands of her captors - Draco, Lucius's son amongst the cruellest of them. Speak only when spoken to was a maxim she knew all to well.

"I said. _Leave_ - _him_ - _alone_." she spoke the last three words very calmly, but there was no mistaking the murderous glint in her eye.

Malfoy clearly registered it too, for just when it appeared that he were about to draw his wand from the end of his cane with the intention of levelling it towards her, he instead snapped it back into place and countered; "I do not see what concern it is of yours, how I handle my own servants. Now do as I say Dobby. Remain here whilst I locate the Minister."

Without waiting for response or acknowledgement from either herself of Dobby, the Malfoy patriarch spun on his heel, his expensive robes trailing behind him as he was lost in the sea of people.

_You always were a coward Malfoy,_ she seethed as she watched his back recede into the crowd. _Content to bully the weak, but unwilling to show your true colours in public. At least so soon after your miraculously release from the 'mind control' the dark lord subjected you to._

She felt a tug at the knees of her robes.

"Dobby wishes to thank Mistress." said the elf, his wide green eyes staring up at her in wonder, his other hand holding the tear in his 'clothing' together. "Dobby has never known such kindness."

Hermione knew that fact only too well. By the time she first met the diminutive little elf, some eleven years in the subjective future, he had born both the physical and mental scars of a lifetime of servitude in the service of the Malfoy's. He had attempted to warn her of a 'great danger' that would be unleashed on the school that year, but any further attempts to garner any additional facts were met with disturbing acts of self punishment, ranging from simply beating himself or going as far as ironing his own hands.

This Dobby however, did not appear to have suffered quite so much – not yet at least. Whilst he had thanked her politely for her help with the bullying Lucius Malfoy, he had not broken down in wailing tears as he would have don't the first time she had met him if anyone had offered him any shred of human kindness. Perhaps, she mused, he had only been in their service for a short time at this point. She asked the little elf as much as she took a seat on the broad rim of the pool.

"I was only bound to the noble house of Malfoy this past month." Dobby replied sounding almost happy about that fact, as he attempted to hoist himself into a sitting position alongside her. "You must not think too badly of Master," he continued, as Hermione took pity on his efforts and extended a hand to pull him onto the rim, which the elf accepted without comment. "It has been very hard for him to reacclimatise to the world now that the demon who possessed him has been vanquished." he finished finally, dropping himself into a seated position, his legs dangling over the edge, unable to reach the floor.

Hermione shook her head. Maybe, she mused, if Malfoy tells enough people that story he'll start to believe it himself. To Dobby she said, "Has it ever occurred to you that Malfoy is lying to you?"

To his credit Dobby looked thoughtful for a moment, stroking his hairless chin as he considered his answer. A moment later he replied in a whisper, "Yes." before glancing around frantically as if convinced his disloyalty was about to be uncovered.

Hermione regarded her friend in silence for a moment. Whilst it was true, as she had already noted, the Dobby before her was as yet unlikely to self harm, the root of that conditioning was already noticeable even after less than a month in the servitude of Voldermorts closest allies. She wished there was something more she could do for him, but right now she had bigger fish to fry than Elfish rights. However she could perhaps offer him a little hope for the future.

"Dobby." she started softly. "Things are going to get better for your kind, I promise. Voldermorts fall - " she ploughed on ignoring Dobby's sharp intake of breath as she spoke the taboo name. " - will ensure that."

"But Dobby, you might have to wait a little longer. The Malfoy's are bad people, but there are people who will fight for your rights. Good and noble people."

Dobby's eyes were wide. "What people?" he whispered reverently.

"Well me for one - " she said kindly. " - and Harry Potter." she added a split second later, although she could not say with certainty why, but she supposed that if his prophecy did mark him out as the person to defeat Voldermort once and for all, it would be the truth.

"Mistress is most wise." Dobby replied, almost automatically and Hermione hated the glazed look in his yes as he spoke the words.

"You don't need to call me that Dobby." she said taking the little elf's hand.

"So what shall Dobby call you?"

"Call me friend Dobby." she finished with a smile.

This time Dobby did not need to consider her words, instead he nodded his oversized head instantly, causing his bat like ears to flap madly. "Dobby would be most please to call you friend..."

The rest of his reply was cut off by the return of a voice she had hoped never to hear again.

"Ah yes Minister," came the silky smooth voice of Lucius Malfoy, his aristocratic drawl sending Hermione's fists into balls in an effort no to turn and hex him there and then. "The Malfoy Estate was only too pleased to donate the funds for our new centre piece. Ah, and here it is. Quite magnificent."

Hermione, staring daggers, continued to glare straight ahead, unwilling to permit herself to gaze upon one of Voldermorts closest allies, although she could now detect, although not quite in her peripheral vision, the presence of the Malfoy patriarch and another person.

"We have decided to forward all the collections onto St. Mungo's unless you have any objections Lord Malfoy?" This was another voice Hermione recognised. The voice of the Minister for Magic herself, whom she had heard on the wireless appealing for restraint after the dark sides defeat.

"Please Minister. How many times must I remind you? Please, call me Lucius - "

The minister actually giggled at that.

" - we are happy for you to donate the funds to whichever needy cause you see fit Minister Bagnold, and I am pleased to say the Malfoy estate will double those contributions." he continued smoothly. "I only wish we could do more. So much suffering."

Hermione was certain her nails, still long and brittle from her imprisonment, were now digging deep into her palms as she struggled to control herself, picturing as she was, the simpering fool shaking his head in mock sadness at his last words. _Suffering!_ she thought angrily. _Suffering that he and his death eater friends dished out!_"

Most generous Lord Malfoy. The ministry will long remember your act of compassion."

"The least we could do Ma'am - " said Malfoy, Hermione picturing him bowing slightly." - it pains me we could do nothing more to help during the war, controlled, as we were, by the _Imperius_ curse."

"You and countless others Lucius." replied Bagnold, her voice sounding consoling as opposed to accusatory.

_He's doing it again, _Hermione thought angrily. Using his power, money and influence to bribe and corrupt his way back into the Ministry's good graces

She couldn't listen to any more. Not without hexing him into the middle of next week that was - perhaps not the best course of action with the Minister for Magic herself standing not more than three feet away. So instead, she stood abruptly and stormed away, Malfoy's snivelling voice carrying back to her as she did so;

"Yes, it is a rather good likeness." he said, obviously referring to the tall wizard depicted on the fountain.

_I knew there was a reason I hated that weak chinned, gutless statue, _she thought as she moved out of earshot_. The pompous prat! He's modelled it on himself_!

oOo

Several hours later, Hermione found herself once more in the darkened chamber that those who worked in the department (the unspeakables, as they were called) referred to as the Hall of Prophecy.

On her first visit to this space so many years in the future she had been guided, as if by some unseen hand, towards the very spot where her prophecy had been located. Finding Harry's, however, had been a much more arduous task.

There seemed to be no cataloguing system in place to record which prophecy was were in the vast hall. The only records on file related to the person who had given the prophecy, or any persons present whilst that vision had played out; neither of which Hermione had anyway of knowing.

Instead she had instigated a manual search of the uncountable orbs, figuring out on her very first visit to the hall in the current time line, that the orbs were arranged in date order. More specifically, the date on which the prophecy had been given. She had stumbled across this fact quite by chance.

On her first day in the past, she had retraced her steps to re-find her own orb, which she had located immediately, sat in exactly the same spot – although it was somewhat less dusty than she recalled. She had toyed briefly with the idea of opening it once more, but rejected that idea quickly, certain that her eidetic memory had recalled the details correctly. She had been about to leave, when she noted that the shelf behind her - row ninety eight - was the penultimate one, with only row ninety nine beyond that. Her subconscious mind alerted her to the fact that that realisation did not fit with her own recollections. Searching her memories, she was certain that the hall had continued on out of sight, far beyond row one hundred.

An unspeakable she had collared later that day, confirmed that the orbs, and shelves they were stored on, were magically created as and when they were needed.

Therefore, as it was likely that the shawled woman had first spoken the words contained within her own orb at some point in late nineteen-seventy- nine, it stood to reason that Harry's - if it existed at all - would be located after that point, his own date of birth nearly a year after her own.

In principle, searching only two rows of orbs, sounded simple, but it proved to be anything but. Even in the relatively small confines of rows ninety eight and ninety nine, the prophecies given in the last two years amounted to literally hundreds, if not thousands of glass orbs. All piled haphazardly on shelves towering from floor to ceiling.

_Not all of these can come to pass surely?_ she found herself thinking after several weeks of fruitless searching.

_So why are you so intent on findings Harry's? _her inner voice questioned almost immediately_. If some or all of these will never come to pass, who is to say Harry's is accurate - or even your own?_

She found she had no answer to that question, but continued her search regardless. It was all she had.

However today she had no intention of mindlessly wandering the farthest two rows, hoping to locate the very orb she wanted by pure chance.

An intuitive leap, which had occurred during a dream the night before, suggested to her subconscious that the person who had given her prophecy, may also have been the same person who had prophesied Harry's.

She had awoken from her slumber this morning with that very thought reverberating around her mind. It was worth a shot at any rate she decided.

Therefore, when she had entered the long darkened hall today, she had marched, not towards the latter rows, but instead directly towards row one. There stood, what a muggle might have recognised as something similar to a computer station. The similarity though, was only a passing one, the pedestal like device was linked to every prophecy in the room, magically recording the details of those present during any prophetic vision.

The pedestal was flattened at its top, flaring into a semi-circular shape perhaps a meter in width. Resting atop it sat a small object resembling a smooth pebble cut perfectly in half. Grasping it in a manner that would have once again seemed familiar to a muggle used to operating a computer mouse, she manipulated the controls of the magical device to search the archive for any other prophecies created by 'ST'.

Two lines of text appeared on the smooth surface of the pedestal, one was familiar;

_ST to XL RE: Hermione Jean Granger/defeat of the Dark Lord?_

But the other made her heart skip a beat;

_ST to AD - Harry Potter/Voldermort? Row 97, shelf 4V._

Hermione dropped the pebble like device and sprinted up the central aisle, skidding to a halt a the very shelf her own orb sat on once again. _It was here all along!_ she realised as she dropped her gazed two shelves and immediately spotted the orb in question.

The last time she had pulled one of these magical orbs off the shelf her hand had trembled with equal parts fear and excitement, she recalled. This time however, there was no doubting the emotion that coursed through her viens - excited anticipation. Anticipation that she would soon hold the key to destroying Voldermort for ever.

She reached her hand over the couple of orbs in front of Harry's own and grasped the sphere. Before, she remembered, her orb had felt warm to the touch, but Harry's felt like - _nothing_. Hermione couldn't feel anything; couldn't see anything. Not the orb, not the shelf, not even her own body.

_Merlin!_ She thought as she slipped into nothingness.

_A/N_

_It is my premise, that as Hermione is attempting to not draw attention to herself, she wouldn't have quizzed many ministry workers about handling the orbs, and therefore would not know that it is impossible to remove anyone's prophecy other than their own. _

_It is also my belief that as Broderick Bode was recovering before his run in with devil's snare, that Hermione will recover too – after another hospital visit that is. _

_I own nothing._


	10. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine - Resorting**

Hermione sat miserably in the back of the tiny wooden boat that ferried her and her fellow first years across the still, calm waters of a mountain ringed lake - or more accurately, she supposed, a loch. She shared her boat with the forgetful boy, Neville, Ron Weasley and Harry Potter. Mere hours ago she would have revelled in her good fortune at sharing a ride to Hogwart's with the very person she had been most desperate to meet. But the self loathing recriminations repeating through her mind wouldn't let her enjoy the moment. Not after what she had done on the train.

After her disastrous first meeting with Harry Potter and his companion Ron, she had, after crying herself hoarse in a disused section at the back of the train, returned to their compartment a few minutes before they arrived at Hogsmeade to try again at making a first impression.

But, if it were possible, it had gone worse than the first.

It appeared that the boys had been involved in a fight, or at least some sort of skirmish with several other boys - also first years she had surmised by the lack of house colours on their uniforms. Although two of them had been large enough to pass as third years or higher owing to their sheer bulk. The gang of boys had nearly knocked her over as they fled Harry's compartment, one of the larger ones howling loudly.

It had been her intention to apologise for her early snooty behaviour, but she found she couldn't stop herself from repeating her earlier mistakes. She had simultaneously admonished the boys for fighting; bossily told them to get their robes on, and, to top it all off, embarrassed the boy who had introduced himself as Ron, by highlighting the large smudge of dirt on his face.

_What's wrong with me? _She cursed silently, dimly aware that the large, wild looking man - _Hagrid_ she recalled Harry calling him - who had met them at the station and ushered them to the boats, was calling for them to get their heads down. _I've been preparing for this day for years. Years! And I cant do something as simple as introduce myself without ruining it_, she thought miserably as she complied and lowered her head underneath a curtain of ivy as the flotilla passed under the cliff face into an underground tunnel that obviously led right under the castle.

Lit only by the torch lights of their boats, the rough walls of the tunnel cast strange shadows and shapes on the walls causing some of the other youngsters to yelp in surprise. Neville, the small round faced boy who seemed to have taken to following her, jumped so high she had to grab him to stop him toppling out of the small craft she shared with him.

After a short time a small jetty appeared through the gloom set in what appeared to be an underground harbour of sorts, a set of stone stairs climbing upwards towards the castle. The small fleet of wooden boats bumped into the side with a little more force than expected sending several students tumbling - a blond haired girl was left hanging out of the boat, one of her socks soaked to the skin.

Hermione trudged from the boat and fell into step behind the shuffling line of fellow first years which wound it's way up the stone staircase like some sort of giant serpent.

She registered, only at the periphery of her mind, that Neville seemed to have misplaced his toad again, and, although she appeared to listen attentively to Professor McGonagall who had met them outside the doors to the great hall, she merely allowed the words to wash over her, knowing already that the deputy Headmistress was explaining the house cup and reward system.

The small chamber they had been ushered into descended into an uneasy silence when the professor left them to check on the preparations in the great hall. Those who did speak speculated wildly as to the manner of their sorting; Ron Weasley suggested that their would be a test in front of the rest of the school, which, if she hadn't been feeling so depressed, would have seen her suppressing a snort of laughter.

However, keen to make amends for her earlier behaviour, she played along and muttered a few simple spells she had learnt under her breath trying, and failing, to catch Harry's eye as she did so.

For his part Harry seemed too engrossed in the two dozen pearly white ghosts who had entered the chamber via the back wall and, although Hermione was expecting as much, she was intrigued by their presence. The Other Hermione had told her touching a ghost felt like taking a cold shower.

Despite her dark mood, her intellectual curiosity was hungry to find out for itself and she stretched out her right arm towards the transparent form of a ghost she thought fitted the general description she had of Sir Nicholas.

Her intellectual curiosity was to be left unanswered - inches from making contact with his transparent form, Professor McGonagall returned and ordered them into a single file line.

Complying, she fell into step behind Harry, with Neville at her heals as they passed through the large wooden double doors to the Great Hall.

Hermione, along with most of her classmates, let out an audible gasp, instantly forgetting the cloud she had been sitting under for the last hour. She had read extensively about Hogwarts and it's many treasures, and had the addition benefit of her elder counterparts memories and recollections to form a picture in her mind of the castle. But whilst she had expected to see the almost countless number of floating candles providing the illumination, and the four house tables with their golden platters and goblets, she hadn't expected it to be so - _beautiful_.

Apparently as overawed as she, Neville nearly sent her flying as he failed to notice the line had come to a halt at the front of the hall, colliding with her ankles painfully, although she managed to avoid calling out.

The first years spread out in a line facing the other students with the teachers high table at their backs. She saw Harry fidget nervously, obviously attempting not to look anyone in the eye, gazing anywhere but the throngs of older students assembled before them. She followed his eye line and noted he was taking in the inspiring vista of the night sky laid out on the enchanted ceiling.

"Its bewitched to look like the night sky," she informed him in a whisper, before quickly adding; "I read about it in _Hogwarts, a History_."

_I'm really going to have to come up with a better reason for knowing this stuff, _she mused silently_. Saying I've read about it is going to get old really quickly._

The whole school was now looking intently at the tattered and frayed old hat that Professor McGonagall had placed on a stool before them, which promptly burst into song, sending the whole school into rapturous applause as it finished. Hermione joined in, although perhaps a moment later than she should have. She had been left momentarily stunned that The Other Hermione's memories had been so perfect, relaying the song to her word for word.

Professor McGonagall stepped forward holding a log roll of parchment which Hermione knew contained the list of all the new first years due for sorting and she listened attentively, standing ramrod straight as if someone had stuffed a coat hanger down her robes, as the new students were called alphabetically.

Hannah Abbott and Susan Bones both became Hufflepuffs just as The Other Hermione had recalled, whilst Terry Boot headed towards the Ravenclaw table to thunderous applause. Hermione allowed her mind to drift slightly as the sorting continued as per her expectations, allowing her eyes to linger on Harry standing a few paces from her. He looked a little unwell to her eye and shifted his weight from foot to foot nervously, and when Millicent Bulstrode was declared a Slytherin he looked almost as green as the house banner of said house. He certainly didn't look like 'The Chosen One' her elder self had described, destined to destroy the worst dark wizard in half a century.

_And you're doing such a good job fulfilling your destiny? _A snide inner voice whispered to her.

Caught up in her musings she nearly didn't register Professor McGonagall calling; "Granger, Hermione."

Squaring her shoulders and attempting to take a deep breath Hermione stepped forward finding her feet breaking into an unwanted trot. She sat down and jammed the too large hat down over her bushy mane where it fell over her eyes, mercifully hiding the goggling crowd of students from view.

"Ha!" Called a small voice in her ear startling her in spite of her fore knowledge it was going to happen. "Easiest one of the night," the hat exclaimed. Hermione could almost picture the rip near the brim drawing a breath to proclaim her a Ravenclaw.

How was she going to tell the hat she didn't want to be a Ravenclaw? She couldn't say it aloud could she? She'd be a laughing stock. _Hermione Granger, _they'd say_. So convinced of her own superiority that she deigned to tell the hat of Godric Gryffindor what to do_, she thought miserably.

Fortunately it seemed, the sorting hat could read minds. "Not Ravenclaw eh?" The small voice asked thoughtfully. "I'm almost never wrong about these things you know, and with your mind..."

Whatever the sorting hat intended to say Hermione would never know for she mentally interrupted it; "_But you said it yourself," _she thought to the hat._ "In Gryffindor dwell the brave at heart," _she quoted from the sorting hats song_. "What could be more daring than asking to be placed there_?"

"_Hmm_," was her only answer as the silence stretched in both her mind, and the assembled student body awaiting the hats decision.

Her answer came, as the table to her left erupt in cheers as the hat yelled "GRYFFINDOR!"

The hat was plucked off her head by McGonagall who seemed to be studying the newest member of her house with no small amount of puzzlement - she, like so many others she had met so far in the magical world, had picked her as a Ravenclaw almost immediately.

Hermione jumped down from the stool and rushed over to her new house mates to receive their congratulations. Her heart sank though, as she couldn't fail to notice that neither Ron or Harry were clapping for her. In fact Ron looked positively disgruntled_. Although_, her hopeful side pointed out _Harry just looks queasy._

By the time Hermione felt as though she couldn't shake another hand of congratulation the ceremony had moved onto the Patil twins, with Padma stepping up first. Hermione noted that Harry would be called soon, with just the twins and Perks to be sorted, but was pulled up short when the sorting hat boomed, "RAVENCLAW!"

Hermione dug her fingernails into her leg, it was all she could do to stop herself jumping up and bellowing "THAT'S NOT RIGHT!"

But it wasn't.

Not the way her elder self described it anyway. According to her the Patil twins were both sorted into Gryffindor. She had been right in every other detail, right down to the wording of the sorting hats song, so it seemed unlikely that she had forgotten someone being sorted into her own house.

_Ah! but in the original time line you were a Ravenclaw,_ the snide voice reminded her.

Hermione felt sure she had gone as white as one of the school ghosts as the implications became clear to her. History had changed. And she had changed it! Would that mean Harry didn't get sorted into Gryffindor? She shot a quick look at the raven haired boy noting grimly that he didn't look particularly brave, or bold right about then.

As Padma's sister was sorted into Gryffindor Hermione released a breath she didn't realised she had been holding as history resumed its original order. Her breathing becoming more regular still, when Sally-Anne Perks too was correctly sorted.

As Harry's name was called a collective hush fell over the Great Hall, even the teachers on the high table were leaning forward slightly to get a look at The Boy Who Lived as he made his way to the stool where the hat was placed on his head, hiding his eyes from view as the room waited expectantly.

And waited...

And waited...

_This wasn't right_, Hermione thought as her mind race, the snide voice continually repeating; _all your fault...all your fault_, in her mind.

But it would be, wouldn't it?

She needed to be close to Harry, to protect him, to ensure he lived to fulfil his own destiny. But she couldn't do that if he was sorted elsewhere.

Hermione felt faint, certain that only because her hands were clamped on the underside of the bench did she not simply swoon backwards.

Finally, after more than a minute, the rip near the brim that served as the hats mouth opened wide and introduced Harry Potter of "GRYFFINDOR!"

Hermione shot to her feet and hammered her hands together until her palms were red from applauding in great contrast to her knuckles which were still white where she had held the bench in a death grip.

Harry received congratulations from the entire Gryffindor table with the Weasley twins doing an impromptu jig accompanied by a song. When Hermione added her congratulations with a handshake she felt a spark of electricity pass between them. Whether it was static or something more ethereal she did not know but she thought Harry had felt it too for his piercing green eyes met her brown ones with a brief, curious look. Until that was, Sir Nicholas patted his other shoulder, surely sending a cold shiver through his body, and he withdrew his touch.

Finally when Ron Weasley had joined Gryffindor and Zabini had been placed with Slytherin the sorting was complete prompting the Headmaster to get to his feet to welcome them all with a truly irreverent speech, that was quite befuddling even though Hermione had heard the words before – she had assumed that The Other Hermione had been pulling her leg, but it seemed, Albus Dumbledore really was what her Mother would have called, an odd duck.

Moments later the golden plates magically filled with food before their very eyes. She suddenly realised that hadn't eaten anything since the couple of pieces of toast she had bolted down at breakfast.

Taking several of the closest items and placing them on her plate, she noted that, despite her lack of sustenance during the day, she was not particularly ravenous – she already felt very full already thanks to a warm glow inside her - she had done it. She was a Gryffindor, and, whether it was psychosomatic or not, she certainly felt braver now, certain she could achieve anything, including prove herself invaluable to Harry, despite the rocky start.

She half listened to the conversations around her and answered honestly the questions from the eldest Weasley she now knew as Percy regarding which lessons she was most looking forward to.

She felt almost as if she could doze off sitting upright as the meal came to a close, but was pulled from her revere by none other than Harry.

"Ouch!" He said and clamped a hand to his forehead covering his scar.

_What's wrong? _Hermione wanted to ask but was beaten to it by Percy.

"N - Nothing," said Harry unconvincingly. "Who's that talking to Professor Quirrell?" he asked Percy.

Hermione listened to Percy's explanation and followed their gazes to the high table where a wizard with a hook nose and long greasy hair sat. _Snape_, she thought. It couldn't be anyone else.

The Other Hermione had been unable to offer her any concrete facts as to what had happened on the night Voldermort returned, only rumours and suppositions that flooded the school in the immediate aftermath. One such rumour suggested Snape had been involved, although any proof had died with Harry - the other Harry - that night.

Hermione was resolved, however, to keep a very close eye on Severus Snape.

The Welcoming feast was brought to a close with a few start of term notices, including a warning about the third floor - the very location of the Other Harry's death - followed by a peculiar rendition of the school song, which, to Hermione's astonishment had words but no tune. Professor Dumbledore seemed to take great enjoyment from conducting the last few bars on the Weasley twins slow funeral march style.

With that Professor Dumbledore had ordered them all to bed.

Falling into step with the rest of her house, the Prefects led them towards the Gryffindor tower, where Hermione, bleary eyed and exhausted, like the rest of her new dorm-mates, had fallen asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.

_A/N_

_Ok, this is the only chapter where it is just straight canon from Hermione's POV, any other time we visit young Hermione the story will focus on missing moments, or expanding on canon. I toyed with leaving this chapter out all together, but elected on leaving it in as I felt it spoke towards Hermione's state of mind during the first change to the time line she had witnessed/caused. _

_Next up; Defence Against the Dark Arts._


	11. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten - Defence Against the Dark Arts**

The first years filled nervously into the classroom for their first Defence Against the Dark Arts class, their heads swivelling this way and that as they took in their surroundings.

The classroom was neatly ordered with several rows of desks facing the currently vacant teachers table. Towards the rear of the room stood what appeared, at first glance at any rate, to be an ancient muggle cinema projector, and, magically suspended above it, hovered the skeleton of a Dragon.

Light streamed in through four, floor to ceiling windows, which afforded them an excellent view of the distant quidditch pitch. All around the room's edges stood several crates of various sizes, some of which shook and rattled occasionally, presumably holding some dark creature or another for study.

Hermione followed in last behind the shuffling line of students and took her seat, offering a encouraging smile to those still hovering uncertainly by the door.

That seemed to galvanise them into taking their own places, although, Hermione couldn't fail to notice that they had arranged themselves, subconsciously or not, as far away from the rattling crates as possible.

Hermione stood.

"Welcome to Defence Against the Dark Arts year one's. I, am your Professor."

oOo

Three years.

Three years of painstaking research, pouring over reports from Aurors, foreign wizards, and even the odd muggle, who's recollections had been preserved before their memories were altered in the name of the statute of secrecy.

Research which coupled with her own foreknowledge, could, she had assumed, lead her directly to the shattered remains of Voldermort.

But, whilst she hated to admit it, despite all her advantages, and almost unlimited access to clues to his hiding place, she had drawn a blank with regards to the location of what remained of Voldermort following his unsuccessful attempt on the infant Harry Potters life.

Her first weeks spent in the past were devoted to attempting to gain a greater understanding of her prophecy by attempting to access the second she had assumed existed. But, whilst she was indeed correct - Harry Potters own prophecy stood on a shelf just two bellow her own - she had learnt the hard way, that attempting to gain access to a prophecy that she was not the subject of was impossible.

She had woken up in St. Mungo's two months later where she received a severe dressing down from a healer on the dangers she had exposed herself to. She had managed to talk herself out of having her all assess pass revoked by claiming she had accidental brushed her hand against another whilst reaching for her own.

All she had gleamed from that experience was that yes, the person who prophesied the events was likely one in the same - ST - although who that might be she still had no idea. She had spent a fruitless few months circling the same mental arguments and retreading avenues of investigation;

_The prophecy says Harry is the only one who can defeat him._

_But the Harry in this time line is just a baby._

_He's done it before._

_Who says I believe the prophecy anyway? _

Frustrated with the lack of answers and the tiresome internal debate she had focused instead on the, so far equally fruitless, hunt for Voldermort.

That admission of failure had led her, more in hope than expectation, to Hogwarts, where perhaps, she hoped, she could gather a pertinent piece of the jigsaw that remained frustratingly incomplete in her mind.

It was common knowledge in both her time and now, that Dumbledore was the only wizard that Voldermort had ever feared to face. Hermione had approached her erstwhile Headmaster in the hope that he alone could offer some sort of insight into Voldermorts mind and allow her to narrow her search area. Going to Dumbledore was her last roll of the dice in her attempt to rid the world of his hateful reign of terror before it could ever restart.

The memory of that conversation brought a smile to her lips as she read the register for the year one Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs;

"Alas, Miss Luesby," Dumbledore began, addressing Hermione using her newest alias. One she had felt obliged to take as at least one member of the Hogwarts staff had encountered her already in this time line - Madame Pomfrey - who had returned to the castle following the end of the first war. Not that she expected to be recognised of course. The frail, emaciated woman who had been under the venerable mediwitches care bore little resemblance to the apparently healthy, middle aged witch who now sat in the Headmasters office, but she didn't want the added attention so had opted to use her Mothers maiden name. "Whilst I have no doubt that my insights into the mind of Voldermort would prove most _enlightening_ to you, as you can see I have a busy school to run. More so, now that I am one member of staff short. I fear I would not be able to devote the necessary time to your...project." he had finished, his blue eyes twinkling.

_Crafty old bugger!_ Had been Hermione's first thought. _He's trying to recruit me. Most likely to the D.A.D.A post_, which, even in her own time, was rumoured to be cursed, with no teacher lasting more than a year at best.

"However, if I were able to secure the services of a suitable candidate before the start of term," he added, confirming Hermione's theory. "I am quite certain that our busy schedules would permit us, at least some time, to revisit my memories of Lord Voldermort."

"Then perhaps," Hermione responded thoughtfully, playing along, "We may be able to come to a mutually beneficial arrangement."

The wizened Headmaster locked his brilliant blue eyes on Hermione's for a long moment and she resisted the childlike urge to fidget under his intense gaze. She knew him to be an accomplished Legilimens and could feel the feather light touch of his mind against her own. However, she was also a skilled Occlumens and knew the powerful wizard would see her mind as nothing more than blank slate of obsidian, with just a trace of sincerity and honesty permitted to 'leak' past the mental barriers she had erected.

"Excellent!" he had proclaimed leaning back in his high back chair apparently satisfied with what he had seen behind Hermione's chocolate brown eyes. He steepled his fingers, raising them to his crooked nose. "That would be most..._agreeable, _Miss Luesby." he said formally. "Our last defence against the dark arts teacher was forced to leave us most suddenly last term. I trust you feel equipped to tutor our youngsters in this field?"

Hermione confirmed that she believed she did, but once again felt his gentle probing at the outskirts of her consciousness. She offered up a handful of nondescript memories that she hoped would serve as valuable references to her accomplishments in the field without endangering the time line

The Headmasters expression did not alter, although if the twinkle in his eyes were to be extended to the rest of his features he would have been positively beaming at her.

So, ignoring her concerns_ (Does he know something? Does he suspect what I'm here to do? Does he know where I'm from?)_ Hogwarts gained itself a new professor.

Pulling her mind back to the present Hermione finished reading the register with, "Weasley, Charles." to which a stocky boy with flaming red hair and numerous freckles raised his hand.

"My name is Professor Luesby," she told the class as she guided a piece of chalk with her wand as it neatly wrote the still unfamiliar alias on the blackboard. Allowing her gaze to sweep across the classroom full of attentive nervous faces a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as she felt a brief swell of reminiscence

As the chalk completed its task she pointed her wand towards the magical projector at the back of the room which stuttered into life. She noted with amusement that several of her students had reluctantly placed their wands back in their bags and removed instead parchment, ink and quill, obviously expecting a lesson in theory.

"Please keep your wands out year one's," she instructed. "Today _will_ have a practical element."

Her statement was rewarded with excited whispers and rustling in bags to retrieve wands.

"_Flipendo_," she stated, once she once again had the groups full attention. "Can anyone tell me the common name for this jinx?"

A handful of uncertain hands wavered into the air. Hermione picked a pale, heart faced girl with short mousy hair.

"Th - the knock back jinx?" she answered in a tone that made it sound more like a question than an answer.

"Thank you Miss..."

"Tonks." supplied the girl who's cheeks were turning red from the attention.

"Thank you Miss Tonks. You are correct. Five points to Hufflepuff."

The girls hair flared the same shade of red as her cheeks. Hermione felt her eyebrow shoot towards her hairline in surprise. _A metamorphmagus,_ she realised quickly but elected to draw no further attention to the obviously embarrassed girl, who had taken to looking at her feet in an attempt to avoid the gazes and mutterings from her classmates.

Hermione magically closed the shutters on the windows and instructed the class to watch the demonstration projected onto the screen and take notes on both the incantation and wand movements required.

Whilst her class bent to their task attentively she took her seat at the head of the class and once more scanned the faces, or more accurately, the crowns of her students heads as they all scratched furiously at their parchment.

Sleep had proved an elusive bedfellow of late and she stifled a yawn as she watched them work, the promise of a practical exercise seemingly motivating them to work far more quietly as a group that she could ever recall during her own time as a first year. Truth be told sleep wasn't the problem, it was the images that invaded her mind whilst she slumbered; memories of the torment she, and those like her had suffered during the troubles.

Strangely those same nightmares; nightmares that had begun almost as soon as she had accepted her teaching position at Hogwarts, provided her with a bizarre sense of comfort. That wasn't to say she enjoyed reliving her darkest days; the frequent night time wakings, bedclothes drenched in sweat, her terrified screams echoing in the darkness were hardly what you could describe as pleasant experiences, but the simple fact that she _could_ wake from them, offered her a cathartic release of sorts. The realisation that she had survived not only the nightmare, but the very reality that those nightmares had stemmed from.

It didn't require a degree in psychology either, to fathom why these visions chose now to haunt her sleep, so many years after she escaped that tortured existence. She knew these people - these children as they were in this time. Some of them at least. Meeting the teenage John Dawlish - a man who had died holding the line whilst Hogwarts was evacuated of muggle borns - was enough to leave her almost speechless in her first seventh year Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson.

Nightmares aside, she was enjoying her time at Hogwarts and her new role immensely. She had thrown herself into preparations for the term with gusto, and despite having only a few short days before the start of term, she had already produced lesson plans with enough material to take all of her classes to the end of October.

As she flipped through those same lesson plans at the front of class, she noted for the first time, consciously at any rate, that almost all of her future lectures revolved around offensive as opposed to defensive spells. _Could it really be referred to as _**Defence**_ Against the Dark Arts_, she wondered, _if the first thing I am teaching them to do is how to attack?_

_But, _as her inner voice reminded her_, offence _**is**_ the best defence_.

The truth, she knew, was somewhere in between those two viewpoints. She had often liked to think that, if the war had never happened, she would have gone into teaching. She knew too, that in that scenario, she would be teaching this class very differently; first tutoring how to defend _against_ unfriendly spells, before anything else.

But that wasn't the case. The war had happened (would happen?) and these children (although she realised intellectually that they were subjectively seven years older than her) would be the first generation to face a reborn Voldermort if she couldn't put a stop to it, and teaching _Protego_ and the like would do them few favours when faced with a death eater wielding an unforgivable curse.

No. She was going to prepare them for worst, whilst she worked at ensuring that that future never came to pass.

The noise level in the classroom rose to a dull murmur, pulling her attention back to the room, as it indicated that her students had completed their assigned task.

Hermione returned her lesson plans to the top draw of her desk and with a wave of her wand retracted the projector screen, opening the closed shutters at the same time.

Hermione instructed her class to stand and form a single file line facing her. Whilst they complied she magically pushed the desks, chairs and bags against the back wall to create a large practise area free of obstacle that a stray curse could hit.

"Okay class. You each get one chance to practise the jinx," she instructed noting the nervous sideways glances some of her students were giving each other. _Just one chance?_ Was their obviously unspoken fear. "On me," she added, speaking a little louder to make herself heard over the excited chatter that her last statement had prompted.

She could well understand it. There had been several teachers during her time she would have happily hexed into next week if she had been offered the chance.

_Snape_ - The word ran across her mind unbidden and she hoped she had been able to keep the look of loathing off her face as his image had appeared in her thoughts, but felt almost certain she had failed.

He had been her least favourite teacher at school, despite her love of his subject - potions. The oily haired head of Slytherin had taken an almost instant dislike to the young Ravenclaw, Hermione Granger, after she was able to answer every question he had posed of her in their first lesson - including several she knew NEWT students would struggle to answer. His possible involvement with Voldermorts return had only served to heighten her dislike - or perhaps even as far as _hatred_ - of the man.

Snape himself had obviously noted her obvious disdain of him on her first introduction to the established staff members, for he had gone out of his way to avoid her since. That suited Hermione just fine. She had no proof of course, even in her time Snapes involvement in Voldermorts return was little more than rumour, so obviously in this time period she had even less evidence, so she had kept her suspicions to herself, but that did not mean she wouldn't be keeping a very close eye on the Slytherin head of house.

Returning her attention to the class she waved the first student forward.

"Ok Mr Weasley. Just there is perfect," she said raising her hand to forestall his movement forward. The redhead now stood about fifteen paces from her. "On the count of three cast your spell. I will attempt to deflect it. Understood?"

The boy nodded and raised his wand.

"One. Two. Three..."

"_FLIPENDO_!" he all but yelled, bringing his wand down from above his head in a quick jerk in a rough approximation of the wand work shown previously on the projector.

A weak, almost translucent, beam of orange light left his wand tip and covered the distance to his teacher falteringly.

Hermione didn't even bother to cast a counter spell. The jinx was so weak she simply swatted it away with her wand, eliciting a laugh from some of Charles Weasley's classmates.

Hermione glared at them and the laughter quickly subsided. "Better," she said before turning to the redhead whose ears had gone almost as red as his hair. "That was a good effort for a first attempt Mr Weasley," she said, offering him a small comforting smile, before addressing the rest of the class. "Magic is more than just silly wand waving and incantations. You need to channel the energies through you with precision. Now, anyone who can improve on Mr Weasley's passable effort will win their house ten points."

The rest of the lesson proceeded smoothly, with only one student, a Hufflepuff girl by the name of Richards, improving on Charles's effort. Finally only the pale faced Tonks remained.

Hermione addressed her pupil; "Okay Miss Tonks. Show us what you've got."

The young witch's face screwed with concentration as she spoke the incantation, a substantial beam of light crackling from her wand tip, as she thrust it forward towards Hermione.

Hermione quickly assessed both the finesse and strength of the spell; the dual realisation that her little class challenge now had a winner, and that, whilst more powerful than her classmates efforts, still lacked any real venom. She therefore elected to allow the jinx to strike her on the shoulder as a practical demonstration of the effects of the curse for her class.

The beam of light hit it's target square and true, sending Hermione staggering backwards with more force than she had calculated. _It won't do, _she thought ruefully_, if I end up on my backside in my first lesson with the first years._

Calling on her years of martial arts training she attempted to regain her balance by tucking into a roll to absorb the impact, but her body felt slow and cumbersome. _Somethings wrong_, she realised intuitively.

As if in slow motion, she found she could not arrest her momentum and was now falling, head first, towards the hard, stone floor of the class room.

She tried to call out but her throat seemed to constrict with invisible chords, only a strangled gasp escaping her lips.

Distantly, as if three floors above her, she her several sharp intakes of breath as the students realised she was not acting.

Her vision, greying even before the back head struck the floor with a sickening thud, was unfocused and stars danced in the corners of her awareness. _Concussion_, a disconnected portion of her brain realised, as her world shrank into darkness.

oOo

Someone was calling a name.

"Professor Luesby."

_Not my name._

"Professor Luesby, can you hear us?"

_Why were they calling for Nanna Luesby? She was never a professor. Didn't they know she had died years ago?_

"Professor. You're in the infirmary. Wake up."

_Damn_! Hermione's eyes shot open as her senses returned. _I've got to stop coming round like this,_ she mused angrily.

Madame Pomfrey's stern, yet concerned face swam into view above the bed.

Hermione tried to sit up, but immediately wished she hadn't. Her head swam, and the room seemed to lurch first to the left, then jarringly to the right as she fought to keep the contents of her stomach precisely there. She tried to blink several times and pressed the heel of her palm into her temple in a vain attempt to lessen the pressure that seemed to have built up there.

"Drink these." the school nurse ordered.

Hermione groped blindly for the proffered vials, downing each acrid tasting potion in turn, but was rewarded by the room finally coming to rest at the horizontal.

"You gave us all quite a scare Miss Luesby..." Hermione pushed aside the fleeting and absurd anger she felt towards the witch for not referring to her as 'Professor'. Anger that quickly turned to suspicion as the school nurse nodded her satisfaction at Hermione's improved condition and hurried off to her office. _My AK scar! _If Madame Pomfrey had seen the scar she would no doubt have already made the mental connection, linking her to a patient she had tended to at St. Mungo's. A quick wand scan would confirm the rest. If the nurse already knew her true identity she would have surely contacted Professor Dumbledore by now - patient confidentiality be damned where those issues clashed directly with the schools prerogative to ensure the safety of the students. And if Dumbledore knew...

Hermione's hands shot to her midsection.

Relief flooded her as her hand made contact with the smooth fabric of her robes, realising she remained fully clothed. Her secret was safe.

She must have released an audible sigh, for Madame Pomfrey hurried to her bedside clutching yet more vials of lavender, pink and clear potions.

The nurse opened her mouth to speak, but whatever she had intended to say remained unspoken; the infirmary doors flew open depositing several small bodies, who had obviously been listening at the keyhole, onto the floor in a heap. Hermione recognised the flaming hair and pale complexion of Mr Weasley and Miss Tonks respectively amongst them.

"Well I neve..." spluttered Madame Pomfrey, bustling over to the door to shoo the first years away.

"It's okay Poppy," called Hermione feeling strange using the nurses given name. "I'd like to see them..._briefly_." she added the last word in response to Pomfrey's withering look.

"Very well," the Hogwarts stalwart huffed. "But I'll be monitoring you from my office. If you attempt to get up or I detect you are tiring they'll all be out of her quicker than they can say quidditch."

The nurse spun on her heel and strode to her office, her footfalls still audible on the hard stone floor even once she closed the door behind her.

The first years had now extricated themselves from the tangled heap in which they fell and surrounded their professor's bed. Hermione was touched that her entire class seemed to be present and she regarded them fondly.

Tonks, the Hufflepuff girl spoke first, but the others soon found their voices too. Their statements quick and jumbled as their words crashed over one another;

"I didn't mean to hit you so har..."

"...tried to catch you but..."

"You hit your head professor..."

"I ran for help..."

"Professor Snape levitated you to the hospital wing..."

"...we've been outside since..."

_Snape_? She thought as she raised a hand for silence, that quickly descended _Well there's a turn up for the books_.

To her class she said aloud. "Thank you all for your efforts. Madame Pomfrey assures me your quick ministrations have ensured I will suffered no lasting damage." In truth the venerable witch had said no such thing but Hermione felt certain that the statement was true. "Now run along. Professor Dumbledore will dock me a weeks pay if I'm the reason you miss your next classes."

Her students filed from the room, reaching the door as Hermione remembered her challenge. "Oh. And take ten points to Hufflepuff Miss Tonks. A flawless _Flipendo_."

Tonk's blushed to her roots and left the room, leaving Hermione plenty to mull over. Both with regards to Miss Tonks, who did appear to be a very promising young witch, especially with regards to her metamorphic abilities - _perhaps_, she mused,_ I could help her develop them_, _she could be an excellent Auror with those abilities_. But more pressingly to her own weakened magical resistance. It didn't take a N.E.W.T student to figure out that her inability to ward off the reasonably weak spell was as a direct result of her growing AK scar.

The scorch on her abdomen, which, on her arrival in the past had shrunk to little more than the size of a pin head, had begun to grow once more as she moved through time, and closer to the date of it's casting. It now resembled a mole, but, on closer inspection the skin surrounding it was also altering - already numb to the touch - which, Hermione reasoned, indicated the curses effects were exponential - accelerating as she moved forwards through time. That knowledge, added to her weakened magical core she had discovered today, made her revise her estimated survival time considerably downwards, especially as she could hardly go to Madame Pomfrey for regular potions to counter the effects without raising suspicions. She was starting to view her locating and destroying of Voldermort as imperative rather than just a project to whittle away a decade on whilst waiting for Voldermort to make his move against Harry. _What better way, _she postulated, _of fulfilling my part and ensuring Harry's survival than by killing the one who endangers that chance? _

Her ponderings were interrupted by a presence at the door; Dumbledore.

"I believe it is time that you told me everything, Professor..."

_He knows!_

Anyone else may not have noticed anything amiss with the Headmasters statement, but the way his voice trailed away, leaving her false Surname unspoken, coupled with his uncommonly sober expression which seemed to have drained the spark from his eyes, left her in no doubt that he did not wish to be told everything regarding the incident in her classroom, but simply _everything_. Everything she had so far omitted from their conversations.

She shot a quick, angry look to the closed infirmary office. _Madame Pomfrey!_ She wasn't observing her medical status whilst she permitted the first years to visit - she was ensuring the first years were protected from her.

Anger threatened to break past the occlumency shields she still had in place.

_I'd never harm a pupil! _

_But Madame Pomfrey doesn't know that. _Her logical side put in._ You've lied to them. She was only doing what you would have done - what you are doing now - protecting them._

As quickly as it had flared up, her anger drained away, as she realised it didn't matter how the Headmaster had come to know. He simply did. And now she would have to deal with the consequences

Hermione nodded. A quick, single, jerky movement and the Headmaster took the invitation to cross the room in long strides which seemed to defy his age, depositing himself in the lone chair next to her bed.

"Tell me everything." he repeated.

_A/N _

_My favourite chapter. I liked getting Charlie Weasley in there, but especially Tonks. I often wondered why she ended up an Auror considering her clumsiness, but perhaps she was guided that way from an early age by a mentor – like Harry and Mad Eye (well Barty Jnr but same deal). In my little story Hermione fulfils that role of mentor and guides Tonks into the profession we know in canon. _

_I also liked Dumbledore finding himself the victim of someone else's manipulations for once. _

_Next up; Young Hermione again – Letters from Home._

_Oh I forgot in the last chapter but I still own nothing! _


	12. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven - Letters from Home**

_Tell us everything_, Hermione thought glumly as she stared at the blank piece of parchment laying atop her parents letter from home asking for details on her new life in the magical world. Parchment that remained as stubbornly blank as it had when she placed it on the desk in her dormitory in Gryffindor tower over an hour ago.

It was now the second week of September, her Birthday fast approaching and Hogwarts was proving to be everything she had hoped and feared it would be in equal measures.

She, of course, loved the school work, and, thanks to her diligent nature and boundless curiosity, was proving to be quite a talented young witch. Although even with her two year head start on her fellow first years thanks to The Other Hermione, it had still taken her almost a whole transfiguration lesson to make even the slightest difference to the match she had been attempting to turn into a needle - hers had turned silver and pointy but it was still fibrous, like a silver toothpick. Professor McGonagall, however, seemed impressed and awarded her five house points.

She had been uncertain as to why her efforts, minimal as they were, had won such praise until she noted, with no small degree of satisfaction that none of her classmates had come remotely close. She, it seemed, was something of a star pupil.

But whilst she was enjoying, and excelling, at the school work, her deep seated fears that she would prove inadequate to the task the Other Hermione had set her were proving, to her mind at least, well founded.

Her stomach gave a pathetic flip flop as she thought of The Other Hermione - her mentor. It had been nearly two months since she had last seen the elderly witch and had long since come to the conclusion that some terrible fate must have befallen her first link to the magical world. Her elder self had never gone this long without contacting her before, and, especially now, in the most crucial moments of fulfilling her destiny, she knew the elder witch would not deliberately abandon her.

_Destiny_. The word dragged her thoughts back to her parents letters from home asking to know everything, but how could she do that? How could she even begin to put into words the weight of expectation she felt, the pressure, the pitiful knowledge that she, and only she, could prevent the world going to hell in the manner The Other Hermione had described? _Especially given that you are doing such a poor job of fulfilling that destiny_, the snide inner voice that had become quite bothersome in recent weeks reminded her.

It was true though, she recalled miserably. Aside from managing to convince the sorting hat to place her with Harry in Gryffindor, she had been unable, _or perhaps incapable _the snide voiced offered, of forming any sort of relationship with him.

It didn't help that Harry seemed a bit - a little - well a little bit reckless if truth be told. Although the knowledge that, in events yet to come, Harry would go in search of the same dark wizard who had already made one attempt on his life, she supposed she shouldn't be overly surprised at that particular personality trait.

Things had come to a head for her in their first flying class together. A cruel Slytherin boy by the name of Draco Malfoy - someone Hermione knew grew into one of Voldermorts most trusted lieutenants in the other time line - had stolen a Rememberall from Neville Longbottom who had been injured early in the class. With their teacher, Madame Hooch, escorting the forgetful boy to the hospital wing, Malfoy had taunted the Gryffindors in general, but Harry in particular, that he was going to leave it up a tree.

_"Come and get it, Potter." The blonde had called from his broom, hovering level with the topmost branches of an oak tree in the school grounds._

_Hermione had grabbed Harry's arm and shouted, "No!"_

_Harry turned, his green eyes glinting dangerously, "Madame Hooch told us not to move," she had tried to explain. "You'll get us all into trouble." she added quietly, her voice fading to nothing. Her real concerns, _You'll be hurt_, remaining unsaid._

He hadn't been. In fact quite the opposite. Professor McGonagall had seen his demonstration of what, even to Hermione's untrained eye, was clearly some spectacular flying and had authorised him to join the Gryffindor house quidditch team.

Hermione's facial expressions had warred with themselves as she experienced both pride in Harry for standing up to the bullies (she had seen there, the first hints of the person who could fulfil his own destiny and rid the world of Voldermort) and the even higher anxiety levels she would now endure as he took part in the dangerous sport, as she eavesdropped on Harry and Ron telling the other Gryffindors in the great hall.

Objectively she knew that in the original time line Harry had not died until the last term of the first year, but that didn't stop her worrying. The time line had already undergone some subtle alterations compared to the one she had committed to memory. Other than her own sorting into Gryffindor, the twins had been placed in separate houses and now Harry had become the youngest quidditch player in a century, a fact which Hermione was certain, The Other Hermione would not have left out from her briefings. The only logical conclusion therefore was that these events had not happened before.

But that wasn't the main reason she was anxious tonight, not after what she had overheard in the great hall at dinner time. Not after pushing Harry even further from her.

The Malfoy boy approached Harry and his best friend, Ron Weasley, at dinner. Hermione, who had shuffled closer along the bench to catch their hushed conversation, turned her head away abruptly in the realisation that Ronald Weasley could now legitimately take that title. A position she had hoped to fill. She was sure anyone looking at her would have seen her chocolate eyes flare green.

She pushed the errant jealousy down deep inside, mentally scolding herself for her moment of weakness. _What did you expect?_ She berated. _Just because the prophecy foretells that you will save Harry so that he can go on to destroy Voldermort, doesn't automatically mean that you and he will be close friends._

Returning her attention to the boys muttered conversation she strained her ears, noting grimly that Malfoy was baiting Harry into a wizard duel, her lips thinning into an almost invisible line as she heard Ron reply in response to Malfoy's taunt about Harry not knowing what a wizard duel was;

"Of course he has. I'm his second, who's yours?" he retorted, effectively accepting the challenge.

Malfoy had turned his pale face away from Hermione, she assumed sizing up his hulking bodyguards, and although she couldn't hear the words she presumed the boy with basin hair cut - Crabbe - had been chosen by the way he cracked his knuckles menacingly, a cruel smile quirking at the corner of his mouth.

Malfoy named the time and place - the trophy room at midnight - turned on his heel and left, Harry seizing the opportunity to quiz Ron on what a wizards duel actually was.

Hope flared up in her chest as she realised that Harry hadn't actually agreed to anything. Ron had done all the talking. Perhaps she could still talk him out of it.

She stood, rather more abruptly that she had intended, sending Dean Thomas's goblet tumbling from his grasp, spilling his juice across the table, which was _Scourified_ by Percy Weasley a moment later.

Ignoring her fellow Gryffindors complaints, she squared her shoulders and strode over to where Harry and Ron were sitting, heads close together, deep in conversation.

"Excuse me." she said in what she had intended to be a polite tone of interruption, but that came out indignant.

"Can't a person eat in peace in this place?" said Ron, obviously irritated. Their relationship had certainly not improved beyond the less than favourable first impression she had made on the train.

Hermione ignored him and spoke directly to Harry, making a concerted effort not to put her hands on her hips, still unsure of what exactly she wanted to say. "I couldn't help but overhearing what you and Malfoy were saying - "

"Bet you couldn't." Ron muttered.

Hermione's eyebrows knitted together. Is that really what they thought of her? Some snooping busybody with nothing better to do that live vicariously through others?

" - you mustn't go wandering around the school at night." she continued but her train of thought had been completely derailed. "Think of all the points you'll loose for Gryffindor if you're caught, and you're bound to be -"

She was rambling. She tried to clamp her jaw shut, but, before she could manage it all the confusion, jealousy and pressure she felt bubbled to the surface in one hurtful sentence; "Its really selfish of you."

Now she did place her hands on her hips in an approximation of a haughty posture, anything to stop her hands flying to her mouth in disgust at herself.

She barely heard Harry and Ron's cold dismissal of her before she bolted to the Gryffindor common room, tears flowing freely down her cheeks_._

_oOo_

Hermione threw herself out of her chair, sending it skittering loudly backwards across the floor where it over balanced and fell over with a surprisingly large crash, fresh tears threatening to break past the emotion dam she had erected, her parents letter lying forgotten on the floor.

She paced her deserted dormitory restlessly - her classmates, despite the late hour, were still downstairs in the common room - but it did little to stem the emotional volatility, which quickly gave way to a rising temper. _Damn you Harry! _She thought furiously, punctuating her thought by stamping her foot in a petulant manner that she was pleased there was no one around to see. _It isn't supposed to be this way. It isn't supposed to be this hard! _

_Well I'm not going to let them get away with it. If I cant be his friend then the least I can do is keep him from killing himself, at least until his date with destiny._

Her decision made, she grabbed her dressing gown from where it had been flung - it had been draped over the back of her desk chair - and stormed downstairs to the still crowded common room.

She scanned the round room for either Harry or Ron, and, sure enough, a vivid mop of red hair caught her eye and she made her way, as directly as was possible between the squashy arm chairs and the like, towards it.

But it was not Ron Weasley.

"Can I help you?" came the slightly pompous voice of Percy Weasley, Ron's elder brother.

Hermione opened and closed her mouth several times as her emotions roiled within. If she just told someone what she had heard they'd be stopped, Harry would be safe.

_But he'll hate you for it,_ offered the snide voice within.

_Better that than dead, _logical Hermione countered.

_Maybe they'll be expelled. You can't protect him if he's returned to the muggles_.

For that, Hermione had no answer.

"Are you quite alright?" Percy pressed, his voiced now softer with a slight edge of concern.

Hermione realised with a start what she must look like; a puffy eyed first year, with tear soaked lashes standing mutely in front of a school prefect.

"Thought you were someone else," she mumbled and hurried away to a corner where she deposited herself in an arm chair facing the fire.

oOo

_Voices_.

Hermione jerked awake from a sleep she hadn't realised she had entered as two long shadows made their way across the now deserted common area. Their figures co-mingling with the shadowy shapes of the chairs and stools still cluttered around the room, lit only by the dying embers of the fire.

Hermione pushed off the blanket that had been placed across her, briefly wondering who might have covered her, as she flicked on a lamp on the table next to her chair and watched as the figures froze, matching looks of horror on their faces.

Looks which quickly evolved to disgust as their eyes adjusted to the light and saw who was confronting them.

Ron, who was wearing what looked like a home made maroon dressing gown looked furious. "_You_!" he said. "Go back to bed!"

Hermione glowered at him, how was it possible, she wondered, that she could dislike someone so much, so quickly. "I almost told your brother," she snapped, enjoying the brief look of uncertainty that flickered across his features which said, as clear as if he'd spoken aloud; _she wouldn't!_

"Come on." Harry said speaking for the first time, and guiding Ron away from her towards the portrait hole, but their attitude had Hermione's temper worked back up to its earlier level - what her Mother referred to as a 'full Hermione'.

"Don't you care about Gryffindor, or do you only care about yourselves," she spat, building up a full head of steam, as she pursued them out of the portrait hole. "I don't want Slytherin, _Voldermort_ she added silently, to win."

"Go away."

Hermione almost laughed at the red-head's pathetic retort, but instead threw her hands in the air and replied. "Fine, but I warned you, you just remember what I said when you're on the train tomorrow, you're so..._going to be expelled_." she finished unspoken, returning to her earlier argument. If Harry was expelled she had no chance of protecting him.

"_Now what am I going to do?_" she was slightly startled to hear her words aloud.

"That's your problem," said Ron, indicating the deserted picture frame, incorrectly assuming that she had referred to the absence of the Fat Lady, preventing her from returning to the common room, rather than her very real concerns about Harry's well-being "We've got to go, we're going to be late." and they turned and walked away into the gloomy corridor.

Sure enough the Fat Lady _had_ vacated her frame. Not for the first time Hermione wondered again about the existence of fate - it was almost as if Hogwarts wanted to give her an excuse to stay with Harry. Offering her silent thanks to the Fat Lady's empty portrait she hurried after the duo as quickly as she could without creating too much noise on the hard stone floor. "I'm coming with you."

oOo

A little over an hour later Hermione lay on her bed staring up at the canopy of her four poster bed, her thoughts racing as she tried to assimilate all that had happened that evening.

Having barely made good their escape from Filch, after Malfoy, as she had expected would happen, had failed to show up in the trophy room at the appointed hour, the foursome – they had discovered Neville Longbottom curled up on the floor outside Gryffindor tower – had also had to evade the wicked poltergeist, Peeves, finding themselves in the forbidden corridor on the third floor.

They now knew exactly why it was forbidden.

A terrifying, three headed, twenty foot high, ferocious dog stood on the other side of the doorway that Hermione had magically unlocked to hide from their pursuers.

"I - told - you." Hermione had fought out through ragged breaths after they had escaped from the monstrous dogs lair – a Cerberus, she had since discovered - but was summarily ignored as Ron pointed out the obvious; that they should return to Gryffindor tower, but she wasn't finished. "Malfoy tricked you. You realise that don't you?" she said speaking directly to Harry, staring into his eyes, the moonlight making them stand out vividly against his pale skin. "He was never going to meet you - Filch knew someone was going to be in the trophy room. Malfoy must have tipped him off."

Harry's eyes seemed to agree with her, but he didn't say it aloud. _It's a start_, she mused.

But it was not the Cerberus, or even the burgeoning understanding with Harry she had felt that was keeping her awake now. It was the fact that the dog had been _guarding_ something. A trap door; a trap door in exactly the place Hermione knew that Harry – The _Other_ Harry – had been killed in the alternate time line.

She had to know what that dog was guarding.

If Hermione were to change the time line; change it and keep Harry alive, she had to figure out what that dog was guarding, and why it had proved so important, ultimately resulting in Voldermorts rebirth.

Her mind considered the question from every possible angle for many hours, but when she fell into a fitful sleep just before sunrise, she still had no answers to any of those questions.

_A/N _

_This chapter expanded out of Hermione's bluff in canon that she had nearly gone to Percy about the midnight duel. It made me wonder why wouldn't she? Her fear of not being able to 'keep an eye' on Harry if he were expelled seemed good enough motivation to me. _

_The next time we see young Hermione it will be during the winter holiday when she is back home with her parents, whilst Harry and Ron are charged with finding out more about Flamel, but first we go back to AU Hermione, the next chapter is called – Revelations._

_Nothing is mine. _


	13. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve - Revelations**

Hermione finished her story with no small amount of relief, her shoulders feeling considerably lighter now she had confided her tale, or at least most of it, to Professor Dumbledore from her bed in the schools infirmary.

She had been careful not to divulge everything to the venerable old wizard for fear that she might alter the time line in ways that would considerably lessen the advantages of her foreknowledge. Namely, she had not disclosed her motivations for returning to the past - other than the obvious desire to rid the wizarding world of one of the most evil dark lords of all time - fearing that if she made mention of the prophecy - _her prophecy_ - her younger self, now a precocious five year old still unaware of her magical abilities, living amongst muggles, would be in danger. Nor did she reveal her true identity for the same reason, a fact that she openly admitted to the headmaster.

At least that's what she told herself her reasoning was.

Of course she was concerned for her infant self and her families well-being, but she could not hide the truth from herself; she was scared. Scared that if she revealed the prophecy to Dumbledore he would point out, in that frustratingly calm manner of his, that she was hardly fulfilling her role.

It was an argument she had many times with herself;

_The prophecy foretells you as the one to save The Boy Who Lived, __**not**__ to destroy Voldermort. _Logical Hermione would point out.

_But how can I not at least try? _Her emotive side would counter._ Fate has given me this chance._

_Ha! When did you start believing in fate? _The snide voice would chime in._ You want nothing more than vengeance! _

_So what if I do - _

For his part Dumbledore had listened attentively as Hermione had retold the events that had led her to this point, apparently unaware of the war raging within her mind. She began with her recollections of Voldermorts resurrection and subsequent declaration of war against muggle borns, continuing all the way through to her resistance movement, capture, and eventual escape to the past.

Dumbledore had made no comment to her admission that she still held secrets, in fact, he had barely spoken at all during Hermione's near hour long speech, which had left her throat dry and her voice weak.

Dumbledore conjured a glass tumbler and filled it with cool clear water before handing it to Hermione, who drank the refreshing liquid gratefully.

He now regarded Hermione over his half moon spectacles, his bearded chin resting atop his steepled fingers. Hermione once again having to resist the urge to squirm under his unblinking gaze as the silence stretched beyond comfortable levels.

At length the headmaster spoke.

"I...believe you." the last two words were more of a sigh. "However," he added before Hermione could respond. "You will, I hope, understand, that I require additional proof of your trustworthiness."

"I've told you the _truth_." Hermione bit off the last word with more venom than she had intended.

"That as it may be," replied the headmaster, nodding sagely. "However, you have already admitted to deliberately misleading me once - admittedly it would appear your actions intended no malice, merely to maintain the time line - " he added quickly, forestalling Hermione's angry reply. " - _And_, you freely admit you continue to conceal details from me. As such, I require you to take The Oath."

"That is, if you wish to continue in your position." he added after a beat.

Hermione's response died on her lips as Dumbledore's last statement sunk in, her mouth opening and closing stupidly as her mind roiled and her heart seemed to swell to twice its normal size in her chest. "Yo - you want me to keep teaching?" she managed eventually, surprising herself with the intensity of her emotions pertaining to her remaining at Hogwarts.

"Indeed." The twinkle had returned to Dumbledore's sapphire eyes. "It appears you have quite a talent for it from what Miss Tonks and her classmates have told me."

"And you need to know if my presence here will endanger the students." stated Hermione, understanding dawning.

The headmaster merely nodded his agreement of her assessment of the situation with a single slow movement of his head.

Hermione snatched up her wand from the small table alongside her bed and held it aloft. "I - " she faltered.

The Oath, whilst not as binding as the unbreakable vow - something only a dark wizard would feel the need to instigate - would only work if the speaker uttered no mistruths. But, the first line required her to speak her name - her _real_ name - which remained one of the secrets she held onto, not wanting to endanger the life of her younger self and her parents should the details of her true identity and purpose fall into the wrong hands.

Hermione's eyes narrowed in suspicion as anger threatened to replace the hope that had grown within her. This was Dumbledore's plan all along! _He wants me to let slip my real name. _

Her emotions must have shown of her face for Dumbledore interjected;

"I believe," he began in the merest of whispers, "that The Oath will still work if you refer to yourself in a truthful manner - even _without_ your name." he suggested kindly.

Inspiration struck Hermione.

"I, Grand Daughter of Margaret Luesby - " Hermione began again, noting the satisfied smile that played across Dumbledore's features as she spoke the name of her alias in it's true context. " - vow that my actions will not endanger the well-being of any Hogwarts students, either directly or otherwise, and that I will nurture and protect them in accordance with my responsibilities as a professor at the school. This is my oath."

With her final words, her wand tip glowed brighter than a dozen _Luminous_ charms, sealing her promise.

The headmaster regarded her in silence for a few moments before clapping his hands together, creating a booming echo. "Excellent," he proclaimed loudly. "I will see to it that you are well furnished with potions from Poppy to manage your - _condition_." he finished, referring delicately to the AK wound that she had revealed to him during her story.

She murmured her thanks and the headmaster stood to leave. Unexpectedly he paused and placed his hand on top of Hermione's own where it rested, entwined with her other hand, on her stomach. Hermione lifted her eyes to meet her superiors and found them sombre, almost paternal, in their manner, his wispy eyebrows knotted together in concern. Words were not needed, she understood his sentiment - _I will help _you.

With a quick squeeze of her conjoined hands her swept from the room, his robes billowing in his wake.

oOo

It was several days before Madame Pomfrey permitted Hermione to leave the hospital wing.

In truth she had been fit to be discharged later that same day, however, the schools stalwart matron seemed unwilling to let her out of her care, or more accurately, her sight.

Hermione could well understand her caution. Whilst the mediwitch hadn't said as much in words, she now very clearly mistrusted the woman she was tasked with ministering to.

How much Dumbledore had told her of the true identity of the woman she knew as Professor Luesby, Hermione did not know. Nor did Madame Pomfrey offer her any opportunity to ask; her regular brisk manner having devolved into one of borderline rudeness, interacting with Hermione only when absolutely necessary in the performance of her duty.

Hermione was unable to muster much animosity to the woman; she had after all saved her life on at least one occasion, and couldn't be blamed for her entirely legitimate feelings of mistrust.

The school's healer was intelligent enough to deduce, with or without Dumbledores intervention, that the woman laying prone in her hospital wing was not who she claimed to be._ "I've never seen anything like it_," she had once stated when confronted with Hermione's AK scar whilst on secondment at 's at the end of the war, making it highly plausible that she had made the mental connection between the woman in her care, and the frail, emaciated person who had once identified herself to her as Jean Umbridge. That being so, she unquestionably knew she had been, and was still being, lied to.

Finally, on the third night, when Madame Pomfrey had once again waved away her questions pertaining to when she could return to her classes, Hermione's patience snapped;

"Dumbledore trusts me you know." she pointed out as pleasantly as she could manage, although a trace of her irritation was evident even to her own ears.

"Dumbledore has been wrong before." the mediwitch retorted, her lips drawn into the thinnest of lines. "You are not the first person he trusted that he shouldn't have - "

Hermione felt her eyebrow quirk towards the vaulted ceiling overhead. She had heard Dumbledore, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot and Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, discoverer of the twelve uses of dragons blood and Order of Merlin, First Class, referred to as many things in her lifetime. Some of them, less than complementary, including, barmy, eccentric and mad, but never _wrong_.

Madame Pomfrey clearly read the expression on her patients face. "I shouldn't have said anything." she mumbled, her anger visibly draining away.

Hermione wanted nothing more that to pursue the cryptic revelation that Dumbledore had, at least in Madame Pomfrey's eyes, been fooled before. But she was no longer the insatiable girl she had once been, so hungry for knowledge, for the truth, that she didn't care who she stepped on to get it, so instead she filed that line of thought away for later consideration.

"Madame Pomfrey. Poppy - " she began consolingly. " - Dumbledore is a great wizard - a great man. Do you really think he would put students at risk based only on my word?"

The matron's shoulders squared but did not respond, only her slightly parted lips any indication that she had pulled herself up short of another angry retort.

"I took the Oath." Hermione's last statement had the desired affect on the mediwitches expression, which relaxed noticeably. "I will take it in front of you too if you wish." Hermione offered a heartbeat later, reaching once more for her wand.

"No need for that - _professor_." Madame Pomfrey replied with only the briefest of pauses before adding the last word.

Hermione offered her a warm smile. It was the first time Poppy had used her title as a Hogwarts professor since she had awoken in the infirmary.

Unspoken, in the brief moment their eyes met, bridges were rebuilt between the two women.

Madame Pomfrey broke that contact with a swift nod of her head, a single jerk downwards, which conveyed her unspoken understanding that whist she knew Hermione was not who she claimed to be, she had re-earnt her trust.

Moments later, and with more of the mediwitches usual bluster, Hermione found herself standing alone in the corridor outside the infirmary, clutching numerous vials of potions to manage her condition, discharged from the healers care.

Glancing at her wrist watch, Hermione noted it was just after curfew in the castle so turned on her heel and, with assured strides, began to make her way towards her well appointed quarters on the third floor with the intention of getting a her regular four hours sleep before rising early to reorganize her lesson plans having missed the last half of the first week of term. Sleep still proved to be a someone elusive bedfellow, her nightmares from her other life plaguing her dreams constantly, ensuring she was lucky to experience a few hours restful sleep at best.

But as she arrived at the foot of the marble staircase her stride faltered as, unexpectedly, the burden that had lifted from her shoulders following her conversation with Dumbledore three nights previously, resettled uncomfortably across her chest, her thoughts constantly returning the the same inner arguments she thought she had squelched months earlier.

..._for only the Boy Who Lived can defeat the dark lord_...

_Stop it!_ she ordered her mind, as the errant thought floated across her consciousness once more.

She began to walk once more, but with her troubled thoughts clouding her mind, she was out through the main doors and onto the slightly damp grass of the sloping lawns before she registered where her feet were carrying her.

At the edge of the lake stood an old oak tree, just visible silhouetted against the dark waters of the lake on this clear but moonless night. As a student, troubled by one juvenile concern or another, she had often found herself drawn to the shade offered by the trees large canopy, where she would sit, eyes closed, listening to the sounds of the water lapping against the shore. Her subconscious mind obviously hungered for that same inner peace now.

Absent-mindedly conjuring a warm blanket to ward off the chill of the autumnal highland night air she deposited herself on the soft earth surrounding the tree, leaning her upper body against the rough bark of it's trunk, letting out a deep sigh as she did so.

..._**only**__ the Boy Who Lived can defeat the dark lord_...

"I said stop it!" Her angry voice filled the air unbidden, sounding many times louder than normal in the otherwise silent night. _Otherwise, why am I here_? she added silently, as she grappled with an age-old question.

Fate or free will.

Ironically Hermione didn't think she could say with certainty she believed in either anymore.

As a child she had often thought herself destined, fated if you will, for something - for something _else_. For something _special_. In many ways that destiny had been fulfilled with her entrance to the magical world as an eleven year old, where she learnt she was indeed, different.

However as she matured, and reason replaced fantasy, logic usurping the intangible, she had grown to believe the opposite. That the future was unwritten, moulded by our choices and our actions - not by any unseen greater plan._ The future is whatever we make it to be_, was a ethos she had clung to whilst the world around her turned to darkness as fewer and fewer people stood up to fight against what they saw as the inevitability of Voldermorts rule.

The very concept of fate was one that made her uncomfortable, but it was a concept that whilst she had been unable to embrace, it was also one she was unable to fully reject. The childlike part of her had no trouble accepting the words of her prophecy as truth when she had first heard its words during her escape to the past.

Ironically, her journey to the past, where she intended to prove the future was unwritten and change history - even one she knew already had come to pass - had been spurred on by the words of a seer. A seer who marked her as a tool of destiny to bring victory to The Light.

However, even if she accepted for a moment that Fate had chosen her, something she was still unable to thoroughly convince herself of, it seemed fate was even more conflicted than her.

On the one hand, her arrival in the moments after Voldermorts defeat had been entirely unplanned. If fate were at play here, it was offering her with an unrivalled opportunity to remove the threat of Voldermort before he could rise again.

Whilst on the other, that same prophecy that led her to this point spoke of only _one_ being capable of defeating Voldermort once and for all. And that one, was not her. Rather a orphaned wizard, still living in the muggle world.

Keeping her back against the bark of the tree trunk she inhaled deeply trying to focus her mind on other details of sensation to calm her mind against the circling, repetitive inner debate she had experienced many times. The salt air filled her nostrils, as did the aroma of the damp earth she lay on, whilst the rough bark had made her back go numb. Ignoring the sensation she did not move, allowing her mind to clear in the sanctity of 'her spot'.

Unaware of how much time had passed, Hermione's eyes sprang open in a moment of clarity.

_Have I not effectively prophesied myself,_ she wondered, allowing her mind to wander freely along a line of reasoning she had not explored before. _Having told Dumbledore what I know of the future, it would be hard, should those things come to pass, for him to view the resulting future as having been anything other than instigated by my foretellings._

The crux, she realised, was the perception of time - results occur after their causes. Therefore it is difficult to perceive a prophecy doing anything else that causing those events to unfold.

_But I'm not bound to the normal view of time as linear,_ she realised. Under normal circumstances it would be impossible to conceive that an event in the future could cause an occurrence in the past, but, for Hermione at least, that was exactly what had happened. Discovering the words of the prophecy many years after she could have legitimately acted on them removed that linear cause and effect - temporally speaking

The realisation made hope swell within her chest, pushing away the uncertainty that had settled there. _I'm free to make my own choices_, she realised. _I am not bound by the prophecy, or the reliance on a chosen one to vanquish Voldermort._

Energised, she pushed back the blanket she had draped over her and pushed herself up from the spongy ground, intent on bending, with renewed vigour, to the task of locating and destroying what remained of Voldermorts mortal existence.

oOo

A few short minutes later she skidded to a halt outside her room, panting for breath as she waved her wand over the lock to open it.

Taking a moment to catch her breath she sat down at her desk, pulling out a quill and a map of Europe she had been compiling, annotated with dozens of potential sightings of Voldermort.

Reaching for her ink bottle she dipped the tip into the black liquid but froze mid-movement as her doubts returned, along with the unwelcome snide voice within.

_But - _it pointed out _- you are no omnipresent being. You are as bound to viewing time in one dimension as any other. Discovering the prophecy may well have been in the future from this timeliness perspective, but it is lies in your past. The events foretold have still caused your actions since. Simply by acting on the prophecy you have ensured that it is true. You can not defeat him._

Hermione dropped her quill, spilling ink on her desktop which she did not bother to clean up.

Instead she threw herself on her bed, starring up at the canopy of her four poster.

_Harry_.

It all came back to Harry.

Fate and Free Will were not, as she had believed before, opposing forces, one superseding another. No, they could exist side by side. She had Free Will - she could choose to ignore the prophecy - but at what cost? If she acted prematurely she could ruin perhaps the only chance of destroying Voldermort once and for all.

With that realisation she understood that only one person could possibly answer that question. Resolved to visit them first thing in the morning, Hermione reached for a book on her bedside table judging that, with her mind still whirling, her frequent nightmares, and, having had as much bed rest as anyone could ever need over the last three days, she would be unable to sleep.

Her next conscious thought was awaking from a dreamless sleep twelve hours later.

_A/N _

_I just want to say thank you once again to you all for alerting or favouriting my first fanfic. There have been a couple of questions put to me via PM or reviews so I guess this is as good a place to answer them as any:_

_To Katesmom2, as you say the story is indeed labelled as H/Hr, but its also not classified as a romantic tale. The main bulk of young Hermione's story concludes at the end of book one, so there was little scope for romance. _

_If you are interested, I am writing another story, 'The Needs of the One'. Its a H/Hr romance and is well outside my comfort zone so who knows if I'll manage to finish it. I might post the first chapter as a sneak peek if there is any demand. _

_To missme; thanks for reading. I'd be interested if you have any ideas how to make the switches between young and old Hermione less clonky – its something that troubled me during writing. As for leaving the other characters undeveloped, that is intentional – I wanted this to be Hermione's tale and nothing but (it also means I don't have to write much dialogue which I don't think I'm too strong at!). Hopefully it won't spoil your enjoyment._

_We go back to young Hermione next with a chapter called 'friends, Foes and Faringdon.'_

_Disclaimer? Check out the other chapters peeps. _


	14. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen - Friends, Foes and Faringdon**

_Home_. A word that Hermione Granger could now legitimately apply to two places.

The first place to hold that distinction, her parents home in Oxfordshire, appeared out of the window of her families car as it rounded the corner into Highworth Road.

The family home was typical of those in the market town she had lived in all her life; quaint, brick built, two story buildings. In number fifteens case, painted cream with Ivy growing round the ground floor bay window.

As her mother guided the family car onto the gravel driveway and up to the wooden garage door to the side of the main house, Hermione caught sight of their eccentric neighbours home, complete with turret, which returned her thoughts to the second place that could now hold the title of home from home; Hogwarts.

And it had only taken a mountain troll to make it so.

oOo

Hermione had been holed up in the girls bathroom all afternoon of the day of the Halloween feast, crying. It was an activity she found herself partaking in more and more often in recent weeks.

More often than she cared to admit to herself, or anyone else for that matter.

Harry, was cold and distant, despite the progress she thought she had been making after the midnight duel affair, and Ron Weasley was just downright confrontational.

As for her other classmates, so caught up had she been in her attempts to get closer to Harry, that they mostly didn't even acknowledge she existed. They had all had formed their own little clicks and groups without her.

Even Neville Longbottom, who had followed her like a shadow for much of the first week, didn't go out of his way to speak with her anymore.

Friendless and lonely, Hermione found herself, more often than not, sat alone with her homework in the common room, retiring to bed either first or last, so as not to have her nose rubbed in what she did not have - Friends.

It wasn't like she wasn't used to the rude comments about being a know-it-all, or a teachers pet. She had, after all, suffered much the same treatment during her muggle education. But for some reason, when those same snide remarks came from Harry's best friend, Ron Weasley, they cut much more deeply, and she seemed incapable of turning the other cheek.

She had been only trying to help him after all - correcting his pronunciation for the levitation charm, _Wingardium Leviosa_, during Professor Flitwicks charm class. She was quite accomplished at the spell, but the red heads retort had been biting;

"It's no wonder no one can stand her," he had said to Harry as they filed out of class. "She's a nightmare, honestly."

Hermione had felt the all too familiar sensation of tears prickling the inside of her eyelids, the realisation sinking in that it wasn't Ron Weasley's comments that hurt her so, rather, that Harry was hardly jumping to her defence.

Determined not to give Ronald Weasley the satisfaction of seeing her reduced to tears, she bolted for the bathroom, knocking into Harry as she fled.

There she had stayed for the remainder of the day, because whilst she loathed the thought of missing classes, every time she thought she had her volatile emotions under control, and her face no longer looked blotchy and red, she would feel the sting of fresh hot tears bubbling to the surface once more.

"What's wrong with me?" she had half sobbed, half bellowed, as she sat in the locked compartment, her question both related to her current condition, but also her inability to make a connection with Harry, or anyone else for that matter.

A few times during the afternoon, some of the other girls in her year, perhaps out of some sense of female comradely, poked their heads around the bathroom door. But Hermione, in no mood to be mollycoddled, asked them, in a tone that bore an uncomfortable similarity to Moaning Myrtle, to leave her alone.

Finally, and only when her wrist watch indicated that the rest of the school would be at the Halloween feast, did she unlock the door to her cubical, and make for the exit, her eyes downcast. Her intention to make her way directly to the Gryffindor dormitory, hoping to avoid meeting anyone on the way.

Hermione had always scoffed at actresses who, in the face of grave, on-screen danger, never ran, or tried to defend themselves - instead, they _always_ screamed.

She would never scoff again, for as she exited her cubical, wiping the tears from her lashes, she came face to face (or more accurately face to knee) with a towering mountain troll.

The piercing scream that tore from her lips would have made even the most tacky Hollywood B-list movie director proud.

Her wild eyes darted between the trolls dim, unintelligent eyes, which were roving around the room attempting to located the sound of her terrified screams, and the enormous wooden club it held in it's hand. It looked like it could crush her easily.

Shrinking into the far corner, she groped blindly for her wand with shaking hands, but found them unable to do her bidding, as all the while, the troll lumbered nearer.

_I'm going to die,_ she realised grimly.

The sound of a tile splintering stopped both the troll and Hermione's morbid thoughts in their tracks; the troll's tiny head spinning around stupidly to locate the source of the distraction.

Following it's gaze Hermione found the source of it's confusion. Stood behind one of it's tree truck sized legs stood the a diminutive figure dressed in student robes. His green eyes determined and set.

_Harry_.

Despite everything, Harry and Ron had come to her rescue.

oOo

In retrospect, becoming their friends had been ridiculously easy - she had simply stopped trying.

She hadn't lied to professor McGonagall about her role in the incident in an attempt to manipulate Harry and Ron into liking her, merely that she didn't want to see them punished after they had risked their own lives in an attempt to save hers. It was, she reflected, a very Gryffindor thing to do, and that sense of belonging had filled her with pride.

Since the incident the trio had become close friends, and rarely was one seen around the castle without the other two being close by.

So close in fact that she was loathed to leave them behind during the holidays. But she had already decided following the revelations of the last few weeks to make one final attempt to locate the Other Hermione to ask for advice.

It seemed obvious now that Professor Snape had let the mountain troll into the castle to create a diversion whilst he attempted to steal whatever Fluffy, the ridiculously named, three headed pet dog that belonged to Hagrid, was guarding.

Even with her earlier suspicions regarding Snape, she hadn't wanted to believe, perhaps through some deep seated respect for authority figures, that a teacher, even one as hostile as Snape, would so willingly place his students in danger. Those misgivings had been quickly dispelled during the first Quidditch game of the year, during which Hermione only narrowly prevented him from killing Harry by setting fire to his robes, as he had attempted to jinx Harry's broom.

The real question was, _why_? What was Snape doing cursing Harry if he was after what lay under the trap door? Surely drawing attention to himself like that was unwise, at best, if he were attempting to steal whatever was being hidden in the castle.

They had already made some headway on that front, but, if she was honest, they had only succeeded in posing more questions than they had answered. Hagrid had let slip that Fluffy was indeed guarding something; something Hermione needed to discover if she hoped to keep Harry alive; something that was very important to a man named Nicolas Flamel.

But aside from the name they had learnt nothing else about the illusive Flamel, despite spending every spare moment in the library researching him.

Hermione was leaving _her boys_ as she had come to think of them, with instructions to continue their, so far unsuccessful, research into Flamel whilst she was away. Truthfully she wanted to stay and help, but with everything that was happening at the school she desperately needed to talk to the Other Hermione. If she could even find her that was.

So much was different in this time line now. Her elder self had never mentioned anyone, even in passing, by the name of Flamel, and she was certain the Other Hermione would not have forgotten to mention a troll attack, or an attempt by Snape on Harry's life if it had happened in her time. The only logical conclusion therefore was that none of these things had occurred. Which meant Hermione was fighting blind.

oOo

Her Father heaved her heavy trunk, laden as it was with several school library books; books she intended to use to continue her own research into Flamel over the holidays.

Hermione's Mother fumbled with the large bunch of keys she always carried, half of which didn't fit any lock they still owned as far as Hermione knew, finally succeeding in unlocking the front door. Several loud grunts accompanied her Fathers appearance alongside them at the threshold of number fifteen as he manhandled the heavy case.

As the door swung open, Hermione caught a scent she would always associate with home; spearmint toothpaste. She felt her lips quirk into an involuntary smile.

"Everything all right dear?" questioned her Mother over the muttered complaints of her Father as he wrestled the overloaded trunk over the doorstep.

"Just pleased to home Mum." Hermione replied honestly.

Truth be known, she had wanted to run straight to the town library to re-start her hunt for clues into her elder selfs disappearance immediately, but it was clear that her parents were missing their only child desperately (and, in all honesty she, them) so it was several days after her trip home on the Hogwarts Express that she was able to pay a visit to her old haunt.

On December the twenty-third, her Father announced that he had some 'last minute' things to pick up in town. Hermione snorted into the mug of tea she had been nursing, whilst her Mother rolled her eyes in a knowing, long suffering, sort of way.

Hermione couldn't recall a single holiday season where her father _didn't _rush out in a frantic panic to do some, or more truthfully, all, of his Christmas shopping.

Never-the-less they both agreed to go with him. Mostly because they were both keen to get out of the house, so poor had the weather been since her return from school that the family had been all but housebound for the last few days.

But whilst it was no longer pouring with rain, or '_a frog strangling gully washer'_ as her Father had colourfully described the sheer volume of water deposited over their little corner of the country, it was still bitterly cold.

So having elected to walk the short distance to the small shopping street in the centre of town, the Granger's wrapped up warm against the piercing chill of the late December day, and ventured out, looking twice their normal size under several layers of thick winter clothing.

As they ambled along the pavements they passed several very familiar landmarks. Her old primary school, her parents practise, and the town's library, complete with twenty foot high Christmas tree.

The lights inside were turned off making Hermione's heart sink until she noted the opening hours board indicating shortened hours during the holidays - it would open only after lunch today. In spite of herself, and knowing full well the unlikelihood of sighting her doppelgänger, Hermione found her eyes raking the darkened bay window, searching, unsuccessfully for the familiar shock of grey hair of her counterpart.

As they turned onto the high street everything looked exactly the same as it did every Christmas in the narrow streets of the oldest part of town. But equally completely different_; Smaller_ somehow.

The towns shops and main street had been decorated with their usual coloured lights and trinkets, and the townsfolk bustled about doing some last minute Christmas shopping. Hermione even caught a glimpse of one of the locally famous dyed Pigeons - bright pink - as they walked past the antiques shop window.

As she expected, her Father's 'last minute things to pick up' turned out to be a very extensive list, their arms growing increasingly laden with gifts and bags from various stores around the town, and, as usual, he was less than subtle when it came to their own gifts.

He had ordered Hermione and her Mother to remain outside an expensive boutique that specialized in perfumes twenty minutes ago, and had done so again now that they had reached the tantalising warmth of the doorway to the towns book store "Why don't I just come in with you and tell you what I want." Hermione called out to her Father's retreating back as he made his way inside, feigning deafness.

"Well I shan't be standing out here in this cold again." Hermione would have believed that her Mother was angry had she not been smiling as she spoke. "Shall we?" she added indicating the small tea room located at the back of the store.

Hermione eagerly agreed.

oOo

"Len!" called a voice Hermione recognised an hour later as the frozen family made their way back home through the meandering streets, weighed down with packages.

Turning on the spot looking back towards the town square Hermione caught sight of the owner of the voice. Her 'uncle' Gideon emerging from the local public house - The Bell.

Gideon Boswell was Hermione's Father's oldest friend, having grown up in Faringdon together. He was a slightly portly man with blond hair that now showed a few flecks of grey at the temples and a rather boisterous grin that often made him look like he was up to no good.

Mr Boswell no longer lived in the town, but Hermione knew his parents still did and surmised he must be visiting over the holidays. All her life she had been encouraged to call him 'Uncle', despite sharing no family with him. It hadn't occurred to her to mind before, but now, approaching her teens, it's seemed somehow less appropriate, and was a practise she intended to cease.

Not that she disliked Gideon. Far from it. She had always enjoyed his irreverent, somewhat juvenile humour At least in small doses.

"Gid!" exclaimed her Father, beaming as he caught sight of his old friend too.

The two shook hands, somewhat awkwardly thanks to odd shaped packages held precariously under arms, before Gideon embraced her Mother, kissing her lightly on the cheek.

" - and bless me! Is this little Mione?" he added, regarding Hermione.

"Hello Mr Boswell." she said smiling sweetly, trying not to let her annoyance at being called 'little' show on her face.

"Mr Boswell's my Father." he stated, although he didn't sound cross. "Call me Gideon." he added, showing more perception to a twelve year olds concerns than she had given him credit for. "Fancy coming inside for a swift one Len?" Gideon continued smoothly without missing a beat, nodding his head in the direction of the pub he had just vacated.

Hermione followed his line of sight; the pub did look very warm and cosy. For a brief moment she wanted nothing more than to warm up beside the roaring fire she could make out through the leaded window, but her thoughts quickly returned to the library and her reason for coming home for the holidays. She couldn't afford not to go today; the library would be shut tomorrow.

Some of this must have shown on her face, for her Mother, glancing in her direction began to decline the invitation.

"Mum and Dad are inside, they'd been thrilled to see you all." Gideon interrupted. Apparently he didn't want to take no for an answer,

"Well - " began her Father, mulling over the offer.

"Actually," interjected Hermione, realising that she wouldn't be able to spend as long as she wanted to in the library if her parents tagged along. "You go. I need to pop to the Library."

Gideon clapped her Father on the shoulder. "It's a done deal then."

A goofy grin, that Hermione only ever saw on her Fathers face when he and his old school friend were together, spread across his features. It was an expression that meant Hermione had no trouble believing the tall tales of mischief that Gideon had retold of their mis-spent youth.

Her Mother was regarding her with an entirely different expression. It said very clearly, _what could a young witch possibly want to study at a muggle library?_

She shifted slightly uncomfortably under the scrutiny but was spared further interrogation by Gideon wrapping his arm around her Father shoulder and offering the crook of his arm to her Mother. " Come on you two," he said amiably as he began to steer them away. "Don't want to stand in the way of the smartest kid I've ever known and her books."

"Go straight home after the library dear." called her Mother back to her. "We'll be back for dinner." she added, although her expression bore testament that that was more a hope than an expectation.

Hermione shouted her agreement and her goodbyes to her parents retreating backs before she hurried off in the other direction.

oOo

The fluorescent lights that spilled out of the large curved window at the front of the library lit the several steps of the library's front entrance adequately in the gloom of the winter day, allowing her to bound up them confidently.

Pushing the double doors aside Hermione entered the familiar, and blessedly warm space. A Christmas tree, far smaller than the real one outside, adorned the front desk, it's twinkling lights passing odd patterns over the face of the librarian who acknowledged Hermione with a single nod of her head.

Turning left, she approached 'their' spot, noting with a sinking feeling that the space was unoccupied.

The realist in her had expect as much but the reality was still something of a blow.

Hermione flopped down into one of the red plastic chairs, which had faded to a pale pink in the near constant sunlight of the southerly facing window.

Depositing herself with slightly more force than she intended she felt something slip from her pocket onto the floor - her wand. She had taken to carrying it everywhere, even though she was very aware she was not permitted to perform any magic outside of school. As she bent to pick it up, her peripheral vision caught sight of something stuck to the underside of the table.

A folded piece of parchment.

_A note!_

Her heart leapt from where it had settled in her stomach, right into her throat, where it began beating painfully.

Hands trembling slightly she retrieved the folded note, and smoothed it open on the table top.

_Dearest Hermione,_

She recognised instantly the neat penmanship of her own hand. Or rather that of her elder self.

_I write this knowing I have little time remaining to me; certain that I will not be around to answer all the questions you will desire answers to. I am dying - _

Hermione paused. She had always suspected her elder self was hiding something in regards to her health. Occasionally Hermione had caught sight of a pained expression or sharp intake of breath from the elder woman, but had always had her enquiries to her condition brushed aside with a pithy retort;

"If you don't have any aches and pains when you get to my age, you can think yourself lucky." The Other Hermione had often joked.

Returning her attention to the note she read on;

_- I'm not even sure I could offer you any certainty, even if I could be with you. _

_Our actions in changing the time line can not occur within a vacuum - there are, and must be, consequences. No doubt by now you have already notice subtle differences from the events as I have recalled them. _

Some not so subtle, Hermione mused as she read, recalling Snapes attempt on Harry's life.

_Accordingly my foreknowledge can no longer be relied upon as it once was. _

_I hoped I would be around long enough to offer you some degree of guidance, but perhaps it is better this way._

_I know this will offer you little comfort, but know this; you are a remarkable, talented and intelligent witch, but you also posses something I never had at your age - a willingness to take a leap of faith. Trust in your instincts; do what feels right. _

_You are the chosen one Hermione - trust in yourself and your destiny will be fulfilled._

_I meet my end, safe in the knowledge that Voldermort will soon suffer the same fate. _

_Take care young one,_

_Love_

_H _

Hermione dried her eyes on the back of her palms before re-reading the note several times. But no matter which way she looked at it, only one thing could be said with certainty; her mentor was dead. She was on her own.

_No. Not on your own. You have Ron and Harry. Together you can achieve anything._

The inner voice spoke to her in the tone of the snide companion she had learnt to live with over the past few months, but for once it offered encouragement, not torment.

Refolding to note and slipping into the back pocket of her jeans, Hermione stood, squared her shoulders, and strode purposefully from the library, certain she would never return there again. There were no answers here anymore.

If there was answers to be found, they would be sought in the magical world.

_A/N We shan't be back with the younger Hermione for a while, as the next couple of chapters focus on AU Hermione back in 1984. The next chapter is called 'The Boy at Number Four' so we get to meet four year old Harry! _

_I own nothing. _


	15. Chapter 14

**Chapter Fourteen - The Boy at Number Four**

Saturday morning dawned dim and overcast in Surrey, the tranquil quiet of Privet Drive broken only by a sound similar to a car backfiring, sending birds scattering from their branches into the gloomy sky.

Hermione Granger took a moment to steady herself - she was still slightly weak despite Madame Pomfrey's ministrations, and apparition was draining at the best of times. Pulling her muggle coat around her she made her way towards number four.

The street looked much as she had first imagined it might when she had learnt of Harry's placement with his Mother's only remaining living blood relative - a muggle sister. The lawns were all perfectly manicured and almost too green, the flower beds still alive with the last colours of summer. But to Hermione's eye at least it all looked somewhat staged, as if every family on the quiet street were all attempting to outdo their neighbours with their _ordinariness_.

It was not somewhere she would have enjoyed growing up, and was about as far removed from the ramshackle appearance of her own childhood home in Oxfordshire.

She did not encounter another soul as she strode the deserted street, coming to a stop at the driveway of number four, the bronze number on the front door reflecting the dull weather.

A car sat on the driveway, confirming two things to her. Firstly, that the owners of the house were in, and secondly, that this was still the home of Petunia and Vernon Dursley. She had read in a ministry record three years ago that Harry's uncle was a director at a company called Grunnings; a company who's logo adorned the small green badge affixed to the inside of the front windscreen of the spotless car parked in front of her.

Turning onto the gravel driveway, her footsteps crunching loudly as she carefully passed the neatly arranged flower borders, Hermione strode confidently, coming to a stop at the front door, her arm extended to knock when an errant thought occurred - _what am I expecting to achieve? _

It had all seemed so clear to her last night. She had decided to visit Harry, to see for herself, she assumed, if he looked up to the task of removing Voldermort from their lives for ever. But Harry was just a child; barely four years old. How could she possibly expect him to live up to her expectations? How could anyone know what the future held for one so young? Could she honestly say that if she had met the infant Voldermort she would be able to say with certainty he would grow into the worst dark wizard in several generations? And if she couldn't, how could you say with any more certainty that Harry would develop into the hero of The Light.

_Ridiculous_! She scolded herself. _Nothing more than an potion addled dream._

Retracting her arm from where it still hung poised to knock, she turned on her heel and make to leave.

A creak of hinges reached her ears barely a stride later followed by a gruff, irritated sort of voice, calling over her shoulder. "Yes?"

She turned once more and was confronted by a thick set man, with a large bushy moustache and very little neck, that she recognised from his Ministry file as Vernon Dursley - Harry's uncle.

"Yes?" he barked again, sounding, if possible, even more irritated.

"I - " began Hermione falteringly, but was saved from having to concoct some story as a second visitor arrived on the driveway behind her.

"Hurry up now Colonel." instructed a deep voice Hermione was just able to recognise as that of a woman's.

"Ah Marge," said Vernon Dursley in a far more amiable tone of voice, as he stepped down from the threshold, shouldering past Hermione. "So glad you could celebrate my birthday with us." Hermione only now noted the balloons and decorations visible through the properties window. "And you've brought Ripper too." he finished crouching down to pet a particularly ill tempered looking bull dog who was trying to wrench itself free of the grip of an elderly gentleman who sported a thin, silvery moustache; a man who, as well as the dog's lead, held a large suitcase in his other arm - the Colonel she assumed.

"He pines if I leave him you understand," explained the beefy woman who could only be a close relation - a sister perhaps.

She was equally thick set and carried a walking stick. She even had something of a moustache on her top lip. "Colonel Fubster kindly offered to drive me up." she concluded waving a pudgy hand distractedly in the direction of her companion.

Vernon Dursely looked as if he were about to enquire as to whether their unexpected guest would be staying too, when he was cut of by a chubby, blond headed boy, half running, half waddling across the front lawn yelling; "Awntie Marge!"

"My ickle neffy-poo!" exclaimed Marge throwing her arms aloft before embracing the youngster, although her arms had trouble meeting behind the chunky boys back.

Hermione, taking her opportunity, made to leave, but halted mid-step as a second, much smaller boy, appeared apprehensively at the doorway, making her breath catch in her chest. _Harry_!

It was remarkable. She hadn't seen him in more than half a lifetime, and even though he had been much older when she had shared classes with him she would have known him anywhere. The jet black hair, currently brushed forwards hiding his scar, his slight frame, and those emerald eyes, which, although he wasn't smiling, seemed to shine.

Aunt Marge had by now released her nephew and turned her attention on Hermione whom she appeared to have just noticed.

"And you are?" she enquired commandingly.

"Leaving." Hermione supplied, and carefully stepped past the family out onto the pavement.

"_Bloody door-to-door sales people_ - " she heard Vernon Dursley complain as she moved away. " - _no bloody peace from them even on a Saturday!_"

Paying no heed, Hermione continued to stride towards the corner of the street where she would apparate away, when Aunt Marge's booming voice drifted back to her, pulling her up short.

"_So this is the little miscreant_?" she wanted to know.

Straining her ears Hermione tried to catch more of the conversation but couldn't.

In spite of herself, Hermione found herself retraced her steps quietly so she was now partially hidden from the Dursely's by number two's hedgerow, where she could see the group gathered on the steps of number four.

Vernon Dursley made a Harrumphing noise by way of confirmation, as Marge scrutinized the waif of a boy in a manner Hermione did not take kindly to what so ever.

After several moments intense scrutiny, that Harry bore up to surprisingly well for one so young, she said; "Damn good of my brother to keep you if you ask me - " she proclaimed, apparently taking an instant dislike to him. " - and stand up straight!" she barked rapping him round the back of the knees with the walking cane she carried.

Hermione stifled what would have been an audible gasp as she watched the heartless woman enter the house, Vernon, the Colonel and Ripper trailing behind her, leaving Harry alone on the doorstep with the suitcase.

_That old bag!_ She thought furiously, clutching the shaft of her wand tightly in her pocket, moving quickly from her partially obscured observation spot.

"I, would not advise that, professor." Dumbledore's unmistakable voice was merely a whisper, barely there, but his firm grip on her shoulder was anything but.

Somehow unsurprised by her former headmasters sudden appearance she attempted to shrug off his grip but ceased struggling as another figure appeared at the doorway.

Tall, thin, and with an out of proportion neck, a prim looking woman who could only be Petunia Dursley appeared, but instead of consoling her Nephew, she instead clipped him round the back of the head with the apron she held in her hands and ordered him to bring the case inside, disappearing back into the house as she did so.

Looking dejected, the young Harry bent to his task fruitlessly. The bag was too large for one so small to move, let alone drag up the front step.

"It's Child Cruelty Albus!" she protested in a tone of barely controlled rage, choosing this moment to employ the use of his given name. "We cant leave him with them!"

Dumbledore's expression was sombre, the omnipresent twinkle, absent. "I ask your patience Professor Luesby," he began almost pleadingly, releasing his grip on her arm simultaneously. "I will explain everything to you once we are back at the castle. If you remain unsatisfied with the child's living arrangements then I will contact the Muggle authorities myself."

"You expect me to do _nothing_?" she asked incredulously.

"Nothing?" Dumbledore tipped his head slightly forward so that he was now peering over his half moon spectacles at her. "I do believe," he offered, with some of his old amusement evident in his voice. "That young Master Potter would appreciate some assistance with his chore."

Now Hermione did draw her wand. "_Locomotor trunk_." she intoned, pointing the course wood at the base of the case.

It wasn't much, and she wished she could do more for him, but the infant Harry seemed overjoyed as he watched the weighty suitcase float serenely past him and into the front hall, disappearing from sight as he closed the front door behind him.

With no reason to remain Hermione and Dumbledore made their way back to the end of Privet Drive and disappeared.

oOo

"What possible reason could you have to want to keep Harry with those - those - those muggles?" The question burst from her lips as soon as the door to Dumbledores private sanctum had closed.

They had apparated into Hogsmeade together and walked the short distance to the castle in silence; the few times she had glanced towards her silent companion, his wispy brows had been knitted together, deep in thought. For her part, her fists were clenched into such tight balls as she walked that she was sure her nails would have cut into her palms, such was the effort required not to simply grab her employer by the shoulders, and interrogate him there and then on the lawns of the castle in front of the entire student body.

"Well?" she demanded when Dumbledore failed to answer immediately, halting the restless pacing she had unknowingly started as she gazed, with arms folded and back to him, out of the window to the school grounds below. This far North the sun was only just peeking above the high mountains surrounding the lake, its orange beams bathing the grounds in cold autumnal sunshine - a few of the hardier souls were already making their way down the sloping lawns towards the quidditch pitch for some early pre-season training. The familiar red hair, that could belong to no other that Charlie Weasley, trailing along behind at a distance, perhaps keen to get a look at the house side in action.

She turned away from the window abruptly and started to pace once more as Dumbledore took a seat on the other side of his desk, tracing her pacing movements with his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, and then promptly closed it.

Once.

Twice.

On the third such occasion he seemed to visibly deflate in front of her eyes, looking every inch the elderly man he was, but didn't usually exude.

She had never seen the venerable wizard lost for words before, and the startling realisation drew her up short, halting her pacing directly in front of his ornate desk.

She didn't know whether to feel pity or anger towards the man; surely he knew what type of people he was entrusting Harry's care to? _Or maybe he didn't, _chimed in her inner voice,_ perhaps he believed them to be the best guardians for him. Albus Dumbledore is not a cruel man. _

Settling herself in the chair opposite the headmaster she searched out his piercing blue eyes, finding them as troubled as any she had witnessed during her own incarceration.

"You didn't know." it was not a question.

"No professor - " he replied, his voice sounding weary and aged. " - I did not."

"So we'll move him." Hermione proposed, her tone laced with concern for both Harry and Dumbledore.

"I am afraid things are not as simple as perhaps they appear." continued Dumbledore, sounding, if anything, even more dejected.

"I'm listening."

The Headmaster let out a long, slightly theatrical, sigh, before drawing breath and saying; "My decision to place H - the boy - " he seemed incapable of Harry's name. " - with his only remaining blood relative was motivated by several factors. And, I am ashamed to say, none of these were based on a desire to give the boy a loving surrogate family - although I must stress I did not believe that the opposite would be the case."

Dumbledore paused, apparently lost in thought once more. "So what _were_ you primary motivations?" Hermione prompted.

"Protection." Dumbledore stated simply.

"Protection?" Hermione repeated leaning forward, as if that very action could draw her closer to the truth. " Who could Harry possibly need protecting from?"

But even as she voiced the question aloud she knew the answer. "Lord Voldermort." answered Dumbledore, confirming her own intuition.

"Surely that's even more reason to place Harry with a wizarding family. Someone who can defend him?" she stated.

The golden sunlight now pouring through the narrow arched window of Dumbledores circular office sparkled in the periphery of her vision, offering her the distraction of observing of the Headmasters curious instruments, several of which appeared to be photo sensitive, emitting puffs of smoke or whirring as the rays hit them, whilst the professor sat in silence, apparently considering his answer.

At length he said; "I know of very few capable of resisting Voldermort, fewer still who are in a position to care for an infant." Dumbledore's voice, whilst still more sombre than normal, carried slightly more of its usual certainty. "I required something more powerful to ensure his safety. Something I could find nowhere else."

The headmaster paused, as if unsure of whether he should continue, but it seemed his revelations were proving cathartic, for he straightened in his chair and uttered a single word by way of explanation. "Blood."

Hermione understood immediately. Blood ties were an ancient, and little understood, branch of magic. However what little she did know of the topic informed her that this sort of magical protection was far more powerful and complete than any other.

However, no matter how powerful a protection Harry benefited from, it did not change the fact that Harry was being mistreated - borderline abused - by his adoptive family.

"Surely Harry has other family?" she probed, managing, almost fully, to hide the anger that had resurfaced as her thoughts returned to the orphans situation.

"Indeed." Dumbledore conceded. "The Potter's are an old and noble house. He does, I believe, have several distant living relatives on his fathers side."

"Well that's brilliant." said Hermione, breaking into her first real smile of the day. "We'll move him there."

"If only we could professor." replied the Headmaster looking sombre once more.

Hermione didn't follow, and said as much.

"It is not the blood of the Potter's that protects the child," Dumbledore explained. "But the blood of the Evans', of whom, Petunia Dursley, née Evans, is the last surviving member."

For the first time during their conversation he willingly raised his gaze, locking his sapphire eyes with hers. He must have seen the confusion that Hermione felt reflected behind those brown iris's for he asked a question;

"How much do you know of the night Voldermort killed James and Lilly Potter?"

Hermione considered her answer. In truth she had studied the event in great detail, both in her original time line, and then, with far more vigour, in her temporally displaced one, as she searched for clues to destroying what remained of the dark lord. However whilst she knew much of the bare facts of the event she had a feeling that Albus Dumbledore knew a great deal more than the official reports contained. She said as much.

"The Potter's were members of the resistance against Lord Voldermort and his Death Eaters," the Headmaster began. "As such they were afforded the greatest magical protection available to them. However on the night of Halloween nineteen-eighty-one, Voldermort breached those defences killing both Lilly and James, attempting to do the same to their one year old son."

Hermione knew this much already. Merlin, every child in their world knew this much. However Hermione sensed Dumbledore had more to say so she remained silent, watching the wizened Headmaster rise from his chair and begin to pace the small room, before he continued.

"This however is only the partial truth." he declared, as the now almost white light of the suns beams glinted of his spectacles as he paused his stride at the open window. "James and Lilly were not killed at the same time. James attempted to hold of Voldermort whilst Lilly ran to retrieve Harry. Of course James, talented though he was, was no match for Voldermort, who made short work of him before climbing the stairs to where Lilly and Harry hid. What happened next, only two people alive can have seen, so I have extrapolated from the known to provide an insight into the unknown."

"It appears to me that Voldermort offered Lilly the chance to escape, for whatever reason he was intent on killing only the child that night. It is my supposition that she rejected that and was killed for her trouble. However, that act of selflessness sacrifice, I believe provided Harry with a magical protect of sort that I still do not fully comprehend. It is a protection he still benefits from to this day, so long as he can call the place where his Mother's blood still resides home."

Hermione assimilated the new information, her subconscious drawing links to her own incomplete jigsaw of events, promptly concluding that Dumbledore's story, although purely speculative on his part was true. It confirmed Voldermort had indeed heard the second prophecy, and although she had never heard it's contents herself, she now felt certain that it marked Harry as a threat to him.

It also confirmed that Harry was indeed safest at the Dursley's home, much to her regret.

"I trust you see now why we can not move the boy?" Dumbledore wanted to know, as he made his way back to his desk, removing his glasses and massaging his eyes with thumb and forefinger as he sat. "Much as his living arrangements leave a lot to be desired."

Hermione allowed her head to offer the subtlest of nods, but the thought of leaving Harry with those monsters made her sick to her stomach once more.

"There must be _something_ we can do?" she said almost pleadingly.

"There may be one small thing I can do to make his life more tolerable, but I will need to make a floo call to an old friend first."

_A/N _

_As I've got the day off work I'm going to try to get as much of Destiny uploaded as I can, but I am editing as I go so I might manage another one or two before I head off to get the kids from school, so its likely to be another few days before the whole story is uploaded._

_I've never really been able to wrap my head around Dumbledore. Is he a manipulative S.O.B or merely misguided? As I say I don't have the answers, so I have painted him somewhere in between, and continue to expanded on that in the next chapter (we stay with AU Hermione) 'Approaching Shadows'. _

_To Katesmom2; you are too kind *****blush*_

_I still own nothing._


	16. Chapter 15

**Chapter Fifteen - Approaching Shadows**

Hermione apparated almost soundlessly into the centre of a dense pine forest in the dead of night; her arrival producing little more noise than the rustle of the unseen wildlife scrabbling through the inky blank undergrowth all around.

She had also taken the added precaution of apparating under the veil of an invisibility cloak that Professor Dumbledore had loaned her to further increase her stealth. Ensuring that, even if anyone had been present to witness her arrival, she remained confident that they would be none-the-wiser to her presence.

Objectively she knew she could cast an almost flawless disillusionment charm. One which would render her all but invisible to even a fair amount of scrutiny. However, it did require an intense amount of concentration, not to mention multiple reapplications, to maintain the illusion of invisibility. Logic therefore dictated the use of the cloak. A cloak which both exuded an aura of extreme age, yet showed no evidence of wear or tear. In short, it was flawless. An item Hermione would have treated with the utmost care even before the headmaster had grasped her elbow to elicit a promise from her that she would return it safely to him - he was, he explained, merely the cloaks temporary guardian, and it's owner would no doubt want it returned one day.

She pulled the fabric of the surprisingly warm silk like material of the cloak to her body in an attempt to ward off the chill of the frigid wind blowing between the gnarled tree trucks as she simultaneously sent out a quick sensory charm from her wand tip.

The wisp of golden light that emanated from her wand tore away through the thick tree trucks and was quickly out of sight. The charm would alert her to the presence of anyone, magical or not, in the area.

When the wisp returned it glowed briefly green as it re-entered her wand tip indicating the area was indeed clear of people, dark creatures or magical wards.

Relaxing slightly she rose from the half crouch she had assumed prior to disapparating and turned slowly on the spot to take in her surroundings. The moon, although only a quarter full, was bright overhead - both a blessing and a hindrance. Its rays casting haphazard shafts of white light through the branches to the snow covered forest floor.

Fortune had favoured her slightly; the night was cloudy, and the forest was frequently thrown into darkness by clouds obscuring the moon.

Ideally she had wanted to wait until the moon had waned to make good use of the cover of darkness to hunt her quarry, but she didn't know how long, if at all, her intelligence would remain accurate, so had made the decision to move tonight, ideal or not.

True to his word, Dumbledore had honoured both his silent pledge to help her, _and_ his promise to improve young Harry's lot in life.

The floo call he had placed that day in September proved to be to a squib named Mrs Figg, who he had employed to keep a watchful eye on Harry. She had reported in the several months since Hermione's visit to Privet Drive, that although Harry was in no danger of becoming spoilt with love and affection, he was at least fed and clothed adequately. She had also taken it upon herself to offer herself as babysitter on several occasions in a further attempt to improve his lot in life.

It was less than Hermione had hoped for, but at least he was safe - and was that not her destiny?

Harry's plight had also served to galvanise her resolve to hunt down Voldermort, and kill him if she could - the prophecy be damned!

Anything so that Harry might live a normal life. He had already suffered so much.

In relation to Dumbledore's first promise to her; to provide what information he could on the whereabouts of Lord Voldermort in return for her continued filling of the Defence Against the Dark Arts post - a role she had occupied, very successfully she might add, for four months now - he had been equally good to his word.

During the past few months the headmaster had summoned her to his office on a reasonably frequent basis to share information from his various sources. Often those sessions would take the form of a pensieve memory gathered from foreign witches and wizards during the time before the first war when Voldermort was building his army in Europe. The theory being that if they could learn about Voldermorts past, they stood a greater chance of understand his motivations in the present.

On others, their meetings would take the form of an informal tea, where Dumbledore would either muse aloud, an activity he said he found quite therapeutic, or simply divulge details of possible sightings from his informants.

Those combined snippets of information had narrowed the likely search area to the mountainous region of northern Albania, which, although a considerable improvement from Hermione's original vast search area, was still a sizeable area.

Especially, if rumours regarding Voldermorts condition were to be believed. According to those whispered conversations, Voldermort was little more than vapour and memories at present, so, attempting to locate his remnants, in what was still a vast area, would be very much like searching for a snitch in a hail storm.

Frustration was beginning to gnaw at her until, ironically, what was perhaps the final piece of the puzzle was presented from those Voldermort loathed the most - a muggle.

oOo

_One night previously_

Hermione pulled her winter cloak tightly around her body to ward against the piercing December chill as she strode the deserted corridors of Hogwarts three days before New Year.

Her wand, as she had now come to call it, rested gently in her right hand, but remained unlit as her feet carried her on a route they knew so well she didn't require illumination. She had, after all, spent a great deal of time in the headmasters study over the past few months.

Unconcerned by her echoing footfalls on the cold stone floor, Hermione quickened her pace. After all the few students who had chosen to remain at Hogwarts over the school holidays would surely be safely tucked up in bed with the hour so late.

A faint smile graced her lips at the thought.

Charlie Weasley and his little gang of misfits might disagree with her assessment. During their three months at the school they had proven the spirit of adventure was very much alive and well at Hogwarts. Hermione knew that both he and his partner in crime, Nympadora Tonks, who had also remained behind for the holidays, would both find it almost impossible to resist the temptation to explore the nearly deserted castle.

Both were excellent pupils academically speaking, but, Hermione had caught herself wishing, on more than one occasion, that she hadn't assisted Miss Tonks with mastering her metamorphic abilities as an extra curricular project. At least whilst the Hufflepuff student was still so relatively immature.

Her abilities had landed herself, and her classmates, in detention several times after she had used them to assist their gang in several bout's of rule breaking - including transforming herself into a doppelgänger of Charlie Weasley to provide the young Gryffindor with an alibi whilst he attempted to break into the school's Quidditch broom store room to take a midnight flight around the grounds.

If Madame Hooch hadn't been so impressed with his display of flying, Hermione had no doubt she would have hexed him there and then. As it was, the Gryffindor had been placed in detention for a month, although he was also rewarded with a place on the reserve house quidditch team, with the promise of a place in the starting seven if he behaved himself over the remainder of the school year.

Her musings were interrupted as she noted vaguely that her feet had brought her to a halt; the stone gargoyles dark silhouette just visible in the darkness standing sentry at the entrance to Dumbledore's office.

Clearing her throat, Hermione spoke the password, 'Jelly Beans', and the gargoyle moved aside permitting her entry onto the spiral elevator.

Hermione had been moderately surprised to find an invitation waiting for her in her quarters that evening. After all, their last meeting had been less than a week ago, and hadn't exactly ended on the best of terms.

Frustrated at their lack of tangible progress towards locating what remained of Lord Voldermort, and unable to shake the feeling that the aged headmaster was holding something back from her, she had confronted him, with that very accusation, at the end of their last appointment.

To her surprise, Dumbledore had neither denied it, nor attempted to excuse his actions:

"I wish," he had begun at length, shaking his head slowly, causing his beard to sway from side to side gently, "I could claim that you are mistaken Professor Luesby," he admitted solemnly, "But - " he ploughed on, raising a hand to forestall Hermione's retort, " - you are not the only one in possession of facts, that, if revealed at an inappropriate juncture, could seriously jeopardise the chances of The Light defeating Lord Voldermort for good."

Hermione had been too stunned to form any kind of coherent sentence, settling instead for raising an accusing eyebrow at her employer.

"I trust you understand that I mean no malice or mistrust by not divulging this information to you Miss Luesby. Merely that I, like yourself, have other factors to consider in determining what information I can share without possibly bringing harm to another."

"Furthermore, I can not, in good conscience, provide you, or anyone else with these details, whilst I am obliged to keep them secret from the one to whom it pertains."

Hermione's angry retort had died on her lips, unspoken. How could she lambaste the headmaster for doing exactly what she herself had done - kept secrets. Am I that hypocritical? She wondered.

The headmaster had bowed her out of his office, waving away her apologies, assuring her he would continue to furnish her with what information he could.

Still it had been somewhat of a surprise to find Fawkes, rather than a school owl, clutching a note from the headmaster so soon. The phoenix looked slightly irritated that he had been relegated to the role of messenger, but held out his leg obligingly anyway. Hermione removed the note, which, if she was any judge of such matters, had been written in a more hurried scrawl than was Dumbledore's norm - as if he were excited by the news he wished to divulge.

The elevator deposited her at the door to Dumbledore's office which already stood open, the wizened headmaster sat silently behind his desk, his pensieve filled with the misty contents of someone's recollections of events past.

"Ah Professor, so glad you could come." he began in a manner that suggested she had been invited to supper rather than plotting the downfall of the worst dark wizard of the century. He gestured the seat opposite him, which Hermione deposited herself in without comment. "I am rather pleased with this one - " he stated waving his wand absent mindedly towards the pooled contents of the bowl, " - and I am most eager to hear your impressions. I believe it to be of particular importance."

Hermione swallowed a lump that had formed in her throat. Could this be it? The headmaster seemed to understand she was unable to speak at this juncture and gestured for her to continue.

Nodding, Hermione leant forward from her comfortable arm chair so that her nose was mere inches from the swirling contents of the penseive, a few errant hairs falling from the tail they were bound in to brush the surface of the memory.

With a familiar feeling of falling, Hermione felt her feet leave the floor of the office as she tipped forward into the memory.

She found herself standing on what appeared to be a rural farm, with well tended fields and wooden structures visible towards the horizon. A large barn and a small farm house amongst them.

The sky overhead was palest blue, with just a few wispy clouds visible high in the stratosphere.

The area was surrounded on three sides by towering mountains, which, despite the height of the well developed crops, suggesting it was late spring or early summer, were snow capped.

"These are the pre-obliviated recollections of a muggle farmer by the name of Edjet Cumani." said Dumbledore appearing at her side. "You can see him there, up on the ridge." Albus extended one robed arm towards a natural outcropping of rock that would have afforded an excellent view of the plain they stood on. There, silhouetted against the sun, stood the slightly portly figure of a middle aged man.

"Where are we?" Hermione wanted to know.

"Mr Cumani lived and worked near the town of Kukës in the shadow of Mount Gjallica." offered Dumbledore.

Hermione nodded, understanding the importance of the region. Much of Dumbledore's intelligence led them to believe that Voldermort was holed up in the Dinaric Alps of northern Albania. Mount Gjallica, if she recalled correctly, was right at the heart of that region. She was about to ask what they were about to see, when Dumbledore held up his palm for silence.

"Its about to begin." he stated simply.

A distant rumble like a gathering storm, which Hermione felt rather than heard, filled the valley. Overhead birds took flight on mass, their countless dark shapes covering much of the blue sky above, as their shrill calls filled the air. At ground level several beasts of burden broke free of their tethers and bolted directly away from the spot where Dumbledore and Hermione observed from.

On the ridge above, Mr Cumani raised a hand to shield his eyes from the sun and squinted into the distance, his hand shooting to his mouth in shock a moment later from what he saw.

Hermione followed his gazed and found the cause of his distress.

A tidal wave.

Normally Hermione Granger would have baulked at the use of the wholly inaccurate turn of phrase. However there was little else that could describe what she was seeing.

A wall of water, higher than the distant barn structures, was crashing into the valley. The shear force, energy and volume of water involved turning the waves into a white maelstrom. Within seconds the wave had traversed the distance between it and the buildings, crushing them to matchsticks in the process.

Moments later the wave, close enough now to see the detritus swept up within it, swept over her position. She fought the instinct to run, willing herself to believe that this was only a memory.

The scene dissolved around her, either due to of the mass of water, or because the memory was over, either way she found herself sat once more in the headmasters study, panting slightly.

"I trust you have deduced who destroyed that muggle town?" asked Dumbledore serenely as if he were asking for the time.

"Voldermort." Hermione all but spat the name.

Dumbledore nodded sadly. "Kukës was destroyed by Lord Voldermort and his death eaters in nineteen-seventy-eight, killing almost two thousand muggles. Those who survived were obliviated and given the false memories that the town had been relocated two years previously to make way for a man made reservoir. The town of new Kukës still stands on the banks of that lake. It retains to this day the, somewhat dubious honour, of being the site of Lord Voldermorts largest single massacre."

A single tear traced its way down Dumbledores lined face before being lost within the white hairs of his beard, Hermione wiping away her own tear tracks with the back of her hands.

"You said this was important?" said Hermione after a time, recalling the headmasters reason for inviting her.

"Of the highest order." agreed Dumbledore.

Hermione's brows knitted together in concentration as she added the story of the town of Kukës to the incomplete jigsaw of Voldermorts current whereabouts but came up blank. Certainly this memory showed where Voldermort had once been, but was the headmaster suggesting he was still there? If that was so, Hermione had yet to see evidence to prove it.

"Confused?" asked Dumbledore. "I'd be astounded if you weren't. You see, taken alone this memory is just that - the memory of an event. A tragic event yes, but a memory none-the-less. However when we consider what we know of Lord Voldermort, the evidence that he currently resides in the shadow of Mount Gjallica becomes a little stronger."

"What," asked Dumbledore. "Do you believe Professor, is it that motivates Voldermort? What is it he craves above all else?"

"Power." offered Hermione without hesitation.

"Very good." replied Dumbledore in a slightly patronizing tone reminiscent of the tone she used with her students. She found that it somewhat irked her. "That being the case where would Voldermort flee when his power was broken and his body defeated?"

"To a place where he had felt most powerful." she supplied, now following the headmasters logic. "But, surely this is all - "

" - circumstantial." finished Dumbledore. "Most definitely. However in the absence of fact, we must consider other avenues of investigation."

Hermione pulled a face which spoke, louder than any words, of her scepticism

"Furthermore," Dumbledore continued seamlessly, "there is a dark pallor hanging over the region. One that has been growing for several years. I believe war is inevitable for the muggles. History tells us that dark wizards often - " he broke off casting around for a suitable word, " - pollute their environment with evil, so much so, that even muggles can become affected."

Hermione knew of the theory. History had shown that, on numerous occasion, Muggles had gone to war during the reign of a dark wizard. What the muggles referred to as World War Two being one such example during the height of Grindelwald's power.

"And you think this is happening in Albania now?" quizzed Hermione.

"In Albania and much of the region as a whole, yes." confirmed Dumbledore. "There is however, one sure fire way to check."

oOo

She had apparated alone to the foot of those very mountains, just east of the location of the man made lake which lay, invisible, in the distance behind her.

Risking a little light, she illuminated her wand tip with a silent _Luminous_, bringing her immediate environment into clearer focus.

The shaft of light that emanated from the wand tip quickly dispelled any lingering doubts she had about the validity of Dumbledore's theory. The forest floor, instead of consisting of the usual dead leaves, twigs and other woodland detritus, appeared to be a writhing mass, alive somehow.

_Snakes_. She recoiled slightly at the sight, even as her rational mind protested _they shouldn't be here!_ It had to be five degrees bellow freezing at least, yet the cold blooded creatures, dozens of them, showed no signs of lethargy. Instead they all appeared to be heading in same general direction - up the mountain.

She had never been afraid of snakes, or anything else for that matter as a child; '_They're more scared of you than you are of them_', as her Mother had been fond of saying, but since her branding as a mudblood, a branding she still bore to this day despite her best efforts to remove the magical mark, she had been justifiably terrified of the creatures.

Even now she could feel her forearm prickling, as if the snake that had lain dormant now for nearly half a decade, was stirring, sensing the presence of its brethren.

Pushing the disturbing feeling away, and making one final check that her cloak was completely covering her, Hermione drew a deep breath and, being careful not to step on any of the serpents, stole after them into the darkness.

_A/N _

_Nearly there now folks. We pop off to see young Hermione, Harry and Ron again in the next chapter entitled 'The Choice', before we come back to AU Hermione for the conclusion of her journey._

_Trivia for anyone who's interested; The town of Kukës did once exist. I stumbled across it whilst I researched Albania looking for a likely place for Voldermort to hole up in. I discovered the town had been levelled for a reservoir, and that just seem a perfect fit for what I wanted in the story. _

_I still don't own any of this. _


	17. Chapter 16

**Chapter Sixteen - The Choice**

_Snakes_.

At first she believed she had landed on a mass of writhing snakes. But, as her eyes adjusted to the gloom of the cavern deep beneath the school she realised her error.

"Lucky this plant thing's here, really."

"_Lucky_!" she shrieked, responding to Ron's flippant remark as she scrabbled up from the still moving surface. "Look at you both."

What she had first assumed to be snakes was actually the rapidly moving tendrils of some sort of giant plant. Both Harry and Ron were now being ensnared, fruitlessly struggling against the tendrils now wrapped completely around them.

Panic threatened to overwhelm her as she watched them sinking deeper beneath the surface as she desperately searched her mind for the knowledge she was certain she processed about this species.

"Stop moving!" she ordered recalling the pertinent details. "I know what this is - it's Devils Snare!"

She ignored Ron's angry retort, focusing instead on Harry's survival as she mentally completed a rhyme Professor Sprout had taught them to kill it.

_Devil's Snare, Devil's Snare_

_It's deadly fun_

_But will sulk in the sun._

Realising what she had to do, Hermione conjured a stream of the same fire she had used to break Snape's curse on Harry's broomstick during the first house match those many months before. In a matter of seconds the plant had loosened it's grip on the two boys, allowing them to clamber free to safety.

They now found themselves in a dimly lit ante-chamber leading towards a stone corridor - the only way onwards. The walls gleamed with a thin sheen of water, as dozens of tiny, meandering, streams of water, trickled down the stone walls, much like droplets of water running down a pane of glass.

Ahead of them the passageway sloped steeply downwards, lost to sight only a few metres ahead.

"This way," said Harry confidently, and Hermione and Ron fell into step behind him.

She hadn't wanted to come down here. In fact she had tried everything she could think of, short of tying Harry up that is, to avoid history repeating itself, but it seemed, fate, had other ideas.

It was merely a few hours beforehand that Harry had made the mental link between Hagrid's desire to own a pet dragon and the plot to steal, what they had now deduced as being, a Philosophers stone from the caverns under the castle. It was this stone; a stone that could provide the elixir of life, that would nourish Voldermort, and thus, return him to full power once more.

_This is how he did it_, Hermione had thought numbly, as all of the remaining pieces of the incomplete puzzle her Other Self had given to her fell into place. _Snape was under that cloak in the bar, and now he knows how to get past fluffy. He'll retrieve the stone and return his master to power. The world will fall just like it did before!_

As soon as she realised that history was set to repeat itself she had insisted on finding Professor Dumbledore - '_Dumbledore is our staunchest ally' _The Other Hermione had often told her_. 'Go to him if you ever need help.'_

But, and to her abject horror, Professor McGonagall had informed them that the Headmaster had been called away on an 'urgent matter' to the Ministry of Magic in London.

_It's a ruse!_ Hermione had realised immediately. Dumbledore was the only wizard Voldermort had ever feared, so Snape had manufactured this supposed emergency in London to draw the Headmaster away.

Since then she had successively attempted to tail Snape, and, when that failed, dissuade Harry from foolhardily attempting to take on Snape. But Harry's mind had been set, 'I'm going tonight and I'm going to try and get to the stone first.' he had told her stubbornly.

The part of her that wasn't terrified of loosing Harry had been ludicrously proud of him at that moment; this was the Harry The Other Hermione had told her of, the boy who could take on, and defeat Voldermort.

Knowing that to succeed with his own destiny, she would have to fulfil her own, she had forced Harry to accept assistance from both herself and Ron - she had to protect him at all costs.

_At least_, she told herself in an attempt to bolster her confidence, as she kept pace with Harry in front of her as they made their way down the sloping stone corridor, _I've got him further than before_. According to the Other Hermione's history lessons, Harry - _her_ Harry - had died in the third floor corridor, presumably dispensed with by the Cerberus.

oOo

_Not just farther than before, _she realised several successfully overcome challenges later, _we've almost done it!_

The trio currently stood atop a vast chess set, Harry playing as a Bishop; Hermione a Rook; whilst Ron dictated play from his position as a Knight. They had already successfully beaten the challenges and protections put in place by Hagrid, and Professor's Sprout and Flitwick, and were now, even to Hermione's untrained eye, only a few moves short of finishing the match on Professor McGonagall's enchanted chess set.

The debris from more than half a dozen of their own black pieces surrounded them on all sides, where the white pieces had deposited them after disposing of them in typical wizarding chess fashion - brutally.

Ron really was an excellent tactician Hermione noted with pride. Not only had he taken several more white pieces than he had lost, he had also managed to not only ensure his own safety, but also that of both Harry and Hermione as well. It was like he was playing three games at once.

Ron now stood in silence, apparently considering his options, muttering incomprehensibly to himself, a shaft of light emanating from directly over his head illuminating his flaming hair.

Hermione gasped.

"_The triagon of the light._" she whispered reverently.

They were arranged in a perfect equilateral triangle, with Harry at the front, Ron behind and to his left, with Hermione opposite him. The shaft of light she had noted, illuminating not just Ron, but all three of them, but leaving the far corners of the board deep in shadow.

The Other Hermione had never been able to explain in a satisfactory manner what the prophecy had meant by 'the triagon of the light', but Hermione knew with certainty, despite only circumstantial evidence, that they were destined to stand here. Harry, Ron and herself - the Triagon of the light. The only ones who could defeat Voldermort.

"I've got to be taken." exclaimed Ron softly, pulling Hermione from her revere.

"NO! She shouted, pleased that Harry's protest had joined her own simultaneously. Having realised the importance of the moment, and the power that they shared over Voldermort, she couldn't allow Ron to sacrifice himself now. Not when they were so close, there could only be one or two more challenges left at worst.

"You've got to make sacrifices!" snapped Ron, swatting away their impassioned pleas to reconsider.

Hermione took stock of their situation and realised he was right. She knew that, on her own, she wouldn't have stood a chance at having reached this far in the game, but now the pieces were arranged as they were it didn't take a grand master to realise that it was the only way.

"I'll take one step forward and she takes me," said Ron gesturing towards the white queen. "That leaves you free to checkmate the King, Harry!" he finished, confirming Hermione's understanding of their position.

Hermione averted her gaze as, drawing a deep breath, Ron bravely stepped forward. The sickening thud of first the queen striking Ron, and then his prostrate form crumpling to the floor elicited a scream from her, but she stayed on her square long enough for Harry to move three diagonal places to his left to end the match.

Torn between staying with Harry and rushing to Ron's side, Harry decided for her, grabbing her arm and pulling her forward and through the next door.

"What if he's - " Hermione couldn't complete the thought.

"He'll be all right." replied Harry, but his answer sounded like a mechanical reflex to Hermione, more to convince _himself_ than anything else.

oOo

Snape had apparently made short work of Quirrells test, for as they entered the next chamber, a disgusting, and all too familiar smell assaulted their noses. But, instead of having to face the twelve foot form of a fully grown mountain troll, the creature lay insensate on the floor before them, a rather severe looking blow to it's skull the obvious cause of it's unconsciousness.

They stepped over the beasts tree trunk sized legs and made their way to the next door, but if Quirrells had been simple, Snapes looked to be anything but.

As soon as they crossed the threshold of the next room, raging fires had sprung up at both the entrance behind them and exit beyond the simple wooden table in front of them.

On the table stood seven bottles of assorted shapes and sizes, all standing in a neat line.

They made their way cautiously over to it, where Hermione snatched up a piece of parchment lying atop the table.

Hermione read silently, although, as she often did whilst she concentrated, her lips move silently as she scanned the page;

_Danger lies before you, while safety lies behind,_

_Two of us will help you, which ever you would find,_

_One among us seven will let you move ahead,_

_Another will transport the drinker back instead,_

_Two among our number hold only nettle wine,_

_Three of us are killers, waiting bidden in line._

_Choose, unless you wish to stay here forever more,_

_To help you in your choice, we give you these clues four:_

_First, however slyly the poison tries to hide_

_You will always find some on nettle wine's left side;_

_Second, different are those who stand at either end,_

_But if you would move onward, neither is your friend;_

_Third, as you see clearly, all are different size,_

_Neither dwarf nor giant holds death in their insides;_

_Fourth, the second left and the second on the right_

_Are twins once you taste them, though different at first sight._

Hermione finished reading the puzzle first, a broad smile etched on her features. Her elder self had often complained of the wizarding worlds often highly illogical nature, but here at least, was a riddle she believed could solve using just that - logic.

She said as much to Harry who finished reading a moment later looking dumbfounded.

Hermione shushed his questions away and started to pace up and down the table, re-reading the clues several times as she went, allowing her considerable intellect to go to work on the puzzle.

First she assigned the constants, bottles she knew to contain either wine or poison, namely bottles one, two, five and six, whilst Harry looked on apprehensively, shooting regular glances to the onward door, where surely Snape must be facing a final challenge to get the stone.

Hermione pushed the thought away, unwilling to let it disrupt her deductions.

"Got it!" she exclaimed after a few more moments consideration. "The smallest bottle - " she pointed to the fourth bottle in line " - will get us through the black fire - towards the stone."

Harry looked at the tiny bottle, turning his head sideways as if in that action he could assess its contents and discern the properties of the liquid held within.

"There's only enough for one of us. That's hardly one swallow." he stated bluntly.

Hermione saw that he was right. Only one of them could proceed towards the stone - towards Voldermort.

_And it's got to be Harry_, added her formally snide inner voice, as hers and Harry's eye locked. "_Sometimes you have to trust your instincts to do what is right._" The words of The Other Hermione floated across her mind unbidden as if in agreement with her own inner voice.

She wanted to protest that she should be the one to continue, she had after all solved both the herbology and potions puzzles, but she knew her subconscious to be right. Together, they - the Triagon - had made it farther than Harry had gotten before, but it was Harry alone who would need to move onwards - on towards Snape and his destiny.

She realised dimly that Harry had been talking - no doubt attempting to convince her to let him go forward alone. "...go straight to the owlery and send Hedwig to Dumbledore." he finished firmly.

Hermione felt her lashes clog with tears as yet unshed, her bottom lip trembling uncontrollably as she regarded him, her sense of decorum deserting her completely as she flung herself into his unsuspecting arms.

"_Hermione_!" he protested.

"Harry - you really are a great wizard you know." she said aloud, unsure if the emotions she was attempting to pour into their embrace would be recognised by him.

"Not as good as you." he replied shyly, his cheeks burning.

"Me! Books and cleverness!" retorted Hermione paraphrasing one of the earliest things The Other Hermione had said to her. "There are more important things - friendship and bravery - " _and destiny_, she added inwardly.

"You drink first." instructed Harry, indicating the end bottle.

Without hesitation Hermione unstoppered the bottle and downed it's contents. The liquid feeling like freezing ice water as it permeated not only her throat, but her whole body as well.

Unsure of the length of it's effects Hermione strode to the doorway they had entered, before shooting a glance behind her to where Harry stood clutching the fourth bottle in his hands.

"Good luck - take care - " The words were inadequate, but she hoped he understood.

At Harry's insistence, she turned, squared her shoulder and walked straight through the flames, loosing Harry from sight.

oOo

"_Mobilicorpus_." Ron's prone form rose a few inches into the air, levitating half a meter to her right.

Hermione permitted herself to feel a modicum of pride at her use of some fairly advance magic, even as the rest of her conciousness wrestled with the decision to leave Harry to his fate.

Upon re-emerging into the chess chamber she had established Ron was largely unharmed, merely unconscious although he wouldn't wake. She wasn't strong enough to lift, or even drag him, so she had elected to attempt a spell she had read in the one of the many advance text books she had checked out of the school library for a little 'light reading'.

Once she was confident in her command of the charm; a skill she tested by guiding Ron's form a few meters in either direction, she directed his unconscious body back the way they had come now she was certain she wasn't going to smack her friends head into every outcropping of rock on the return journey.

Fortunately the keys did not react this time when she grabbed on of the rickety old school brooms; fortunate because she didn't believe herself to be an accomplished enough flyer to both evade the hundreds of enchanted flying keys whilst still maintaining her control over Ron's levitating body.

As it was it was still perhaps the most arduous flight of her life, on two separate occasions she had only noticed in the nick of time that Ron's head was mere inches away from the sheer rock face of the vertical tunnel they now climbed towards the tiny square of light that was the still open trap door above.

"I hope I don't have to sing." she murmured to no one in particular, as painfully slowly they neared the spot where Fluffy undoubtedly still stood guard, but she could think of no other way to calm the three headed beast - she didn't think she could manage the juggling act of levitating Ron, maintaining her grip on the now sweat slicked handle of the broom, _and_ playing a tune on the flute she still held in her back pocket.

Mercifully, as they drew within earshot of the corridor, a thunderous rumble, that could have only been the simultaneous snores of three separate heads, filled the air.

Not willing to leave her escape - and therefore Harry's survival - to chance, she put on a spurt of speed when she was just a few meters short of the trapdoor and hurtled through the opening, Ron's still unconscious form still trailing behind just missing the frame as she guided him through.

Landing roughly, she all but threw herself and Ron through the doorway, slamming it and sealing it behind her with a muttered _Colloportus_, spurred on by the snuffling growls of an obviously stirring Fluffy.

Heart hammering somewhere near her throat, she tried to rouse Ron, who lay next to her in an ungainly sprawl, but no matter how hard she shock his shoulders, he would not wake.

"What did I tell you and your little band of miscreants Miss Granger about any more night-time wanderings?" The silky smooth voice sent Hermione spinning on her knees to turn towards a voice she recognised immediately, but that her logical mind refused to accept could be here.

_Snape! _She opened and closed her mouth several times, but couldn't managed to form a coherent sentence. _How could he be here? So who is in the chamber? _

An expression Hermione had never seen on her potions teachers face, glittered across his expression - concern.

"Miss Granger. What has happened to Mr Weasley?" he wanted to know, apparently noticing for the the first time that the redhead was out cold. "And where is Potter?" he finished, his eyes casting around the corridor.

_Trust him_. The voice that came from within was not her own, but Harry's. Regardless of how unlikely those words were to ever come from the real Harry's lips, she found that she considered it to be the right thing to do. The Other Hermione would have called it a leap of faith, but, whatever her motivation, she said;

"He's gone after the stone Professor."

Snapes eyes flashed with obvious anger, but also an emotion she couldn't clearly get a read on - was it panic? "Come with me!" he snapped and strode, not as Hermione had expected, towards the now locked door to Fluffy's corridor, but instead in the opposite direction.

"Bu - but Ron!" she called, torn between staying with her friend and following the professors instruction.

Snape pointed his wand over his shoulder and muttered a whispered incantation. Ron's body appeared to dissolve in front of her - only his outline remaining vaguely discernible. "Weasley will remain safe here for the time being. Now follow me."

With one last glance at Ron's near invisible form, Hermione hurried after the potion master, who although not exactly running, moved with such purpose that Hermione needed to trot along behind to keep pace with the back of his billowing black robes.

Less than a minute later, and after several twists and turns leaving her feeling totally disorientated, they stopped at the feet of a stone gargoyle.

"Toffee chews" said Snape unexpectedly.

Obviously a password of some sort, the stone sentry stepped aside revealing a moving, spiral staircase, which Snape took two at a time, Hermione trailing in his wake.

They arrived in a circular room that Hermione had never seen before but never-the-less recognised immediately, Dumbledores office. Her elder self had described, in meticulous detail, the ornate wooden desk surrounded by comfortable arm chairs; the dozens of portraits of former Headmasters and Mistresses, all snoozing in their frames; and of course the brilliant scarlet plumage of an exquisite bird Hermione knew to be the Headmasters familiar - Fawkes - a phoenix.

If the situation had not had been so grave Hermione would have loved to get a closer look at several of the strange devices, haphazardly arranged on spindly legged tables all around the room. As it was, Snape strode purposefully to the fireplace, grabbing a handful of greenish powder in the process. With his other hand he grabbed Hermione's own in a rough, although not painful manner.

If she had not read about the process, Hermione would have been terrified as professor Snape manhandled her into the grate alongside him, but instead she knew she was about to experience floo travel first hand.

"Ministry of Magic. Atrium." Snape spoke the words clearly, throwing the powder to the hearth at the same instant.

Travelling by floo powder, Hermione realised a moment later, that travelling via floo was much like learning to fly a broom. It was definitely something that could not be learnt in a book. She could feel the potion masters cool hand still gripping her wrist firmly, but the other sensations were deeply disorientating; brief glances of other rooms crossed her vision, and the world seemed to spin about her.

Just as she was sure she was going to be violently sick, the roller-coaster ride ended and Snape stepped assuredly out of the fireplace; Hermione stumbling out inelegantly behind him, feeling as green as the room they had entered.

The atrium, as Snape had called it, was a vast space, it's walls cover in dark green tiles. As her vision ceased swimming she recognised that the space was actually very handsome. The tiles were offset by a dark polished wood floor, and a beautiful peacock blue ceiling overhead. At it's centre stood a golden statue of what appeared to be a highly stylised witch and wizard surrounded by several other magical creatures that she couldn't make out from this distance.

"Find the Headmaster." Pulling her attention back to Professor Snape, who she had believed was addressing her, was instead startled to find the black haired teacher conversing with what appeared to be a deer, almost spectral in nature. No, not a deer, she realised, a doe.

The doe, nodded it's elegant neck once in apparent understanding of Snapes command and moved away to their right.

Hermione watched the beautiful creature out of sight, her intellectual curiosity longing, despite the urgency of their situation, to learn more about the beautiful and dazzling piece of magic.

"Severus?" The voice of Albus Dumbledore filled the room, his tall form appearing from the opposite direction to that of the departed doe. "What has happened?" he wanted to know as he approached, his voice laced with concern.

Snape flashed her a look, that although could hardly be described as encouraging, she recognised that she had been invited to speak.

"Its Harry!" Hermione said, her voice close to breaking.

"Harry's gone after him, hasn't he." It wasn't a question.

The lump that had formed in her throat made it impossible for Hermione to reply - _it's been too long_, she realised grimly, managing only a curt nod by way of reply.

Without another word Dumbledore stepped into the grate and disappeared.

_A/N _

_So that's my take on why Dumbledore returned to the castle having only just departed for London. He told Harry that Hermione's owl had passed in mid-air as he returned to Hogwarts, but Ron and Hermione told Harry in the same chapter that they had never reached the owlery when they came across the headmaster heading to the third floor. _

_As for Hermione, she now believes, if Harry has survived that is (and this being canon we know he does), that she has fulfilled her destiny – to save the boy who lived. We also know she will be called upon to save Harry's life many more times in the next few years, meaning her prophecy remains incomplete – not that she knows that yet. _

_Disclaimer? See chapter one. _


	18. Chapter 17

**Chapter Seventeen - The Man With a Thousand Faces**

Several hours had passed since Hermione had arrived on the foothills of Mount Gjallica.

During that time she had climbed ceaselessly, pausing neither for rest or refreshment, following the trail left for her by hundreds of serpents. The climb, as the night wore on, had grown progressively more arduous, as first the trail steepened considerably, followed by the noticeable thinning of the canopy of trees as she approached the altitude limit of the great firs.

That last change had brought about another, more challenging obstacle; without the trees constant foliage, the layer of snow on the forest floor had grown considerably thicker, leaving Hermione panting with exhaustion, both from the effort of pulling her frozen limbs through the drifts and the effects of the already thinning air.

Casting her eyes around in the gloom for something to aid her, her eyes fell upon several large pine cones; cones which she promptly transfigured into warm snow boots, alleviating some of the numbness in her toes, as she pulled them on over her own, in hindsight, totally inappropriate footwear.

The invisibility cloak, still wrapped around her torso, though unnaturally warm for a garment so thin, was now no longer providing sufficient warmth either - Hermione adjudged that the temperature had dropped several degrees further bellow zero since her arrival. Pulling a curtain of ivy from one of the scattered tree trunks she transfigured it into a matching overcoat of warm fur, replacing the invisibility cloak over her now considerably stockier form once she had pulled her arms into those of the thick coat.

Although now reasonably warm and protected against the elements, her pace was still tortuously slow. The moon overhead lit the snow-covered ground with an eerie glow, revealing her footsteps to even the most casual observer. Therefore, to maintain her stealth she had no choice other than to laboriously obliterate her footsteps as she went.

By the time the steep ground began to mercifully level out an indeterminate amount of time later, even her meagre cover offered by the passing clouds had evaporated, the sky now star speckled and clear.

Pulling her weary body over the last incline, Hermione found herself standing on a level plateaux, offering her a clear view to the valley bellow.

Hundreds, perhaps thousands of meters bellow, the glow of the moon illuminated the glassy surface of the lake; a lake under which, Hermione knew, lay the ruined town of old Kukës - crushed under the weight of millions of gallons of water.

_Yes, I can see why Voldermort would feel powerful here_, she thought inconsolably as she said a silent prayer to the almost countless souls who had perished that day.

To the corner of the lake, the earth's natural satellite reflected in the still water. Its crescent shape drawing Hermione's eye to a small rocky island, the only piece of dry land for hundreds of meters in any direction. She recognised it instantly, despite the different context and view point, as the very outcrop of rock that she had seen in Dumbledore's penseive; the very outcrop that the muggle farmer, Edjet, had stood upon when he witnessed Voldermorts ruthless destruction of his home and his livelihood. It was that memory that had spurred her reconnaissance trip to this region of Albania in the first place.

Tearing her thoughts away from the past, Hermione turned. The plateaux was maybe a mile across in all directions, and, perhaps thanks to the sheltered afforded it by the almost vertical wall of rock behind where Gjallica continued upwards, reaching to the sky, grew a dense thicket of trees, almost large enough to be termed a woodland.

It occurred to her that both the presence of the trees, so far above their normal natural altitude limit, coupled with the very existence of such a relatively flat, open expanse of land, so far up a mountain, could very well indicate that these things were quite possibly not naturally occurring phenomena. _I'm close_, she realised, the anxiety she had expected to feel at that moment absent.

Her ponderous assent meant that she had long since lost sight of the snakes that had spurred her up the mountain side in the first place, but, unlike her own footprints, the snakes meandering trails were very much still clear in the deep snow. The action of their limbless bodies creating what could loosely be referred to as a path of sorts through the deep snow, as if someone had swept the top layer away with a broom - and it led directly into the nearby trees. Perhaps, she mused, it was psychosomatic, but the thicket of trees now looked considerable more foreboding than it had prior to her realisation of the snakes destination.

Taking once last glance at the disturbing view bellow, Hermione straightened, and moved stealthily into the almost complete darkness of the gnarled and twisted tree trunks moments later.

Protected once more by a thick canopy of foliage, the snow lay much less deeply here, which, although a blessing for her frozen toes, ensured that, even in the light of her wand, the snakes trail was indiscernible "Now how am I going to find him?" she whispered aloud to no one in particular.

She hadn't expect an answer, but, to her shock, she received one; an answer in the form of a piercing, blood-curdling scream, which rang out through the night air as if magically amplified. Hermione whirled around towards the direction of the cry, but her wand light only fell against yet more thickly clumped tree trunks, their randomly spaced forms preventing her from being able to see more than a few meters in any direction.

She drew her wand and repeated one of her earlier sensory charms. "_Veneficus revealo_." But the wisp of light, instead of tearing off into the undergrowth in search of dark wizards or witches, simply dissolved in mid air. She repeated the spell twice more, but with the same result. "Damn it!" she swore aloud. _Anti-locator wards, _she realised_, and I'll bet my last sickle there are anti-apparition wards too_. Sure enough, try as she might, she was unable to so much as transport herself beyond the next tree stump, let alone to the aid of whomever had cried out. _Where are you?_

As if on cue, a second, if possible, louder scream wrenched through the night air; a scream which now carried a somewhat gurgling quality Hermione was certain it didn't posses before.

Throwing caution to the wind, she sprinted in the general direction of the scream, which, as she pounded through the decaying pine needles of the forest floor, ceased as quickly as it had begun - she didn't know whether to take that as a good sign or not. Branches and thorns tore at her skin and clothing, as her feet thudded through the undergrowth, her wand light bobbing disorientingly ahead of her.

Her breath was coming in short painful rasps now, the cold night air burning her throat as she gulped down lungfuls of oxygen poor air, her practical mind just beginning to wonder which would give out first, her legs - which she could feel filling with lactic acid making them feel leaden and heavy - or her stamina. Just as it became clear she was about to receive an answer favouring the latter, a clearing in the trees appeared ahead of her.

She skidded to a halt at the edge of that clearing, bracing one palm against the surprisingly smooth bark of a nearby tree trunk to support her body, bent over double as she was, in an attempt to catch her breath.

Her position now placed her at the outskirts of what she could now see to be a nearly perfect circular clearing in the forest, the moon, now high overhead, offering the only illumination. Only at the clearings centre was the leaf strewn floor of the forest visible. A roughly circular shape, perhaps five meters across, surrounded on all sides she noted with a shudder, by the writhing form of not dozens, or even hundreds, but perhaps thousands of snakes. At the very middle of the that snake free circle lay the unmistakable form of a human body. Even in the half light, the figure of a woman, was clearly visible. She possessed pale, almost porcelain white skin, and a mane of long, flowing raven hair, and had been stripped of every article of clothing.

Hermione's subconscious briefly wondered why the unfortunate woman was not shivering uncontrollably, either in fear or piercing cold, until that is she registered the expanding pool of fresh blood radiating from the back of her skull - she was dead. _Murdered_.

Although the victims face was not visible at this distance, Hermione's inner eye, still tormented by nightmares of those she had seen killed by the enemy during those long ago wars, supplied the mental images; the blank face of Victor Krum staring up at her after he had jumped in front of a killing curse meant for her; the stunned expression on the bloodied face of Deanna Lumière, her French ally, cut down by _SectumSempra _in the battle of Paris; and, although she had never witnessed their deaths personally, the images of the mangled remains of both Harry Potter and her own parents each appeared in her minds eye. Both no doubt far more gruesome in her own wild imaginings than in reality.

Hermione fought the bile back down her throat as she tried to steady herself. There was no doubt in her mind now as to who was responsible for this woman's death. The same person who had been responsible for all the lives extinguished she had just re-witnessed, and countless more besides - _Voldermort_.

Realising the dark lord must be close by she flattened herself to the forest floor, using a fallen tree trunk as partial cover, gripping the shaft of her wand tightly as she did so.

_Reconnaissance be damned, _she thought, hatred bubbling up from within her once more, unable to take her eyes of the recently murdered woman._ If Voldermort shows himself I'll kill him myself. _But before the thought had fully formed in her mind, the snakes, who, until now, appeared to have been held back by some form of invisible barrier, suddenly surged forwards on mass. Mere moments later, the figure of the lone woman was lost to sight under the small mound of serpents that had formed over her body.

_No, not one mound,_ the detached part of Hermione's mind that wasn't revolted by the sight registered, _two._

As she watched in silent horror, the snakes, as if suddenly magnetically attracted to one another, began to form two, roughly tree trunk shaped structures over the deceased woman, bound in place by magic unknown to her, but of obviously dark intent and origin. These continued to grown in height and volume until they were both roughly the height and width of a fully grown man. At that point the two columns joined, although the lower part of the gruesome structure remained separate. More and more snakes added their mass to the ever growing construct, joining at the foundation of the columns, pushing those that had joined earlier higher and higher.

Only, at around three and a half meters in height, when two smaller columns branched off the main growth on each side, did Hermione understand the awful truth. It was a body - roughly humanoid in shape, although about twice the size of a regular man_. But for what purpose?_ The objective part of her wondered.

Unable to pull her eyes away from the disturbing vista the detached part of her brain registered that different species of snakes were preforming different functions. Huge boa's and pythons formed the main backbone and much of the skeletal structure, whilst smaller species filled in the muscle mass and bulk of the body. Finally the smallest grass snakes and the like bound together to form the digits and the hands.

Shifting her weight slightly, Hermione tried to get a clear line of sight for her wand towards the hulking figure of the snake-man, but to no avail. The handful of trees still between her and the clearing, whilst affording her an excellent cover, prevented a direct shot. _I'm going to have to risk moving_, she realised grimly as the snake-man neared completion.

But even as the thought occurred to her, her hyper-attuned hearing detected a rustling noise behind her. Expecting nothing less than to be confronted by the ruin of Voldermort himself, who, she had concluded, had to be behind whatever it was she was witnessing, she spun on the spot and levelled her wand ready to blow the dark lords heart out of his chest.

But her wand light fell on only empty forest.

_Calm down_, she chided herself inwardly. It had been a long time since she had jumped at the sounds of the night, she recalled as her memories briefly returned to a family camping trip to the Forest of Dean - a trip she realised numbly, was happening right now half a continent away. The ghost of a smile graced her lips as she remembered the strong arms of her Father soothing her late into the night as she had awoken, terrified by the nocturnal sounds of the forest. The mental image, just as it had in reality, calmed her racing heartbeat.

But it was a respite that was short lived; her heart rate, having slowed something closer to normal levels, skipped a beat and then began racing frantically once more as as she felt the disturbing sensation of something touching her leg. Something big.

In hindsight she could not say how she had avoided screaming out, for she was sure that, as her eyes locked on the body of the largest snake she had ever seen - at least the size of three men and as thick as a barrel - that her lips had parted in sheer terror. Mercifully however, no sound had issued forth from them, ensuring her hiding place, for the time being at least, remained undiscovered.

The king serpent, as Hermione inwardly termed it, slithered over to the still form of the now completed figure, circling in once, as if in appraisal. Then, and with an agility that could not have been naturally gifted to the presumably weighty beast, it coiled itself like an enormous spring and launched itself to the top of the body, it's features forming the 'face' of the the frightful construct, it's long sinewy body curling around underneath to form an approximation of a neck.

"Sweet Merlin." Hermione muttered sotto voce.

As she watched, still unobserved from her hiding place, the features of the king snake paled and lengthened, it's slit like eyes turning from yellow, through orange before settling on blood red. This was a face she recognised. A face from her nightmares. The face of Voldermort himself.

_Memories and vapour._ She recalled the description from one of her briefings with Professor Dumbledore, but she hadn't thought to take it literally. It appeared that the rebounding killing curse he had attempted to use on the infant Harry had left him without form - little more than a ghost – forcing him to inhabit the bodies of other creatures to survive.

The transformation apparently complete, the Voldermort-snake-man took one faltering step forwards, revealing the forest floor where the body of the woman had lain to be bare. Not even the blood of the victim remained to mark that she had ever existed. As the snake-man completed it stride, several of the smaller snakes became dislodged from the body, as the whole avatar jerked forward in a distinctly ungainly manner.

Hermione's subconscious registered that the loss of mass, although minimal compared to the whole, appeared to weaken the avatar, sinking to one knee as it had. She filed the information away for possible later use. _Although that use_, she realised silently, _may be limited_, as she observed the dislodged serpents quickly reorientate themselves, slither after, and rejoined the rest of their brethren.

Refinding it's feet the avatar took another more assured step forward, then another, then another. Each time fewer and fewer pieces of the whole became dislodged; each time more and more closely resembling human movement.

Realising her hiding place was about to be overrun, Hermione made to scurry aside, but stopped in her tracks when the Voldermort avatar did the same. For a moment it stood stock still, before throwing it's giant head back - a maniacal, mirthless laugh, booming from it's serpent like mouth as it did so.

"So long has it been." the Voldermort-snake-man said in a soft, almost aristocratic voice. "To have form once more. It is a dream I had almost given up on." The head of the avatar lowered and gazed at one extended approximation of a humanoid forearm, carefully flexing and testing each digit as it did so.

"And," it continued. "Nagini informs me that we have a _guest_."

Instinct informed Hermione of what would happen next and she threw herself to her left without looking, as simultaneously the snake-man's left extremity shot forwards, wandlessly turning the patch of woodland she had hidden behind into kindling. Sharps shards of wood and splinters showered over her, ripping open fresh tears and lacerations in her skin as she held her arms above her head in a vain attempt to shelter herself from the worst of it.

Hermione scrambled to her feet and tore off through the undergrowth, not knowing, or caring, where her feet were carrying her. Voldermort was laughing again, the same cold and high pitched laugh that without fail had woken her from her nightmares for more than half a lifetime. _But_, she realised morbidly, _there would be no waking from this one._

Throwing herself behind one of the larger tree trunks, she flattened herself against it, her breath coming in ragged gasps, quickly calling upon her martial arts training to slow her rattling breaths so as not to give away her position.

Voldermort had stopped laughing, the air still and quiet around her once more. Peeking to one side, Hermione chanced a quick look around the trunk back towards the clearing. The avatar had it's nose in the air, the forked tongue of the king serpent that formed it's face flicking in and out rapidly. "I can smell you." Voldermort declared triumphantly, throwing another blast of powerful wandless magic just to the right of Hermione's current hiding place, destroying several more trees in the process.

"I can smell your fear." it taunted as another loud crack accompanied the destruction of the trees to her left.

Sinking to a crouch against the forest floor, her back still resting against the trunk, Hermione assessed her options, grimly coming to the conclusion that they were few - each as uninviting as the last. There was now no longer any cover to speak of on either side of her, ensuring it was only matter of time before her current location was discovered. The anti-apparition wards were almost certainly still in place and retreating on foot, whilst an option, served no purpose - there would never be a better chance to end this war before it had begun. Besides even if she escaped this hillside she was still assured to die from her AK injuries - a longer more protracted death than she would likely receive tonight - but death non-the-less.

Decision made, Hermione summoned her courage, and stepped out from behind the trunk, hoping she exuded more confidence than she felt as she faced down her nemesis.

"Just _one_?" Voldermort almost laughed, placing a particular sneering emphasis on the last word. "One to stand against the greatest wizard the world has ever known?"

"Albus Dumbledore is the greatest wizard the world has ever known." declared Hermione defiantly, speaking the words she knew would infuriate the dark lord the most, her voice sounding reassuringly strong and assured as it echoed in the otherwise silent night.

Voldermorts snake like features twisted into an expression of disgust. "Dumbledore?" he all but spat the word. "And where is the old man?" he wanted to know, the king serpents tongue flicking in and out once more, as if attempting to detect the venerable wizards scent. "Cowering in the safety of his castle no doubt. Surrounded by the filthy blood of those he permits to reside there - " Hermione's angry retort died on her lips as Voldermort paused, sampled the air once more, and continued. " - isn't that right my little _mudblood_?"

What little self control she had been clinging to at that point snapped.

"_DEPRIMO_!"

Hermione spell issued as an almost feral growl, the resultant rush of storm force wind that emanated from her wand tip slamming into the torso of the snake-man. She permitted herself a satisfied smirk as the avatar stagger back a few paces, several snakes becoming dislodged as she had hoped.

Her self satisfied smirk faltered, for where before she had witnessed the avatar weakening as it mass decreased, this time it seemed to have little or no effect on the body as a whole, as the snake-man arrested it stumble and drew itself up to it's full and considerable height as it did so.

Once more the king serpent - Nagini she presumed - threw it's head back, Voldermorts taunting laugh filling the clearing once more. "Foolish mudblood." With a whipping motion of one 'arm', Hermione felt herself bound as if by invisible cords, then watched helplessly as her body was dragged, as if by an unseen hand, into the centre of the clearing, mere meters from the towering form of the Voldermort avatar.

She could feel the countless eyes of every snake in the body on her, but mastering her fear of the legless lizards, raised her chin, both in a gesture of defiance, and so as she could look into the eyes of her killer. _I die free._

"You dare look at me?" shrieked Voldermort, all trace of his almost aristocratic voice gone.

Enraged, Voldermort swatted an enormous hand towards her still bound form, knocking her several dozen meters to her right with the back of his 'palm'. She hit the ground hard, both feeling a sickening crunch that she assumed signified that several of her ribs had snapped, but also the sensation of the bonds holding her, dispersing. Rolling to her feet with as much grace as she could muster, she tried to keep the wince from her features as she felt the separated pieces of her shattered ribs grate against one another painfully.

"I dare." she replied evenly, conjuring a shield charm between them as she did.

Obviously still infuriated, the snake-man charged the barrier, but was repelled by the strength of her shield. Her resolved fortified by her unexpected success she began to circle the outside of the shield charm she had erected between them, keeping her gaze resolutely locked on her adversary.

Voldermort recovered and so too began to pace the outer edge of the shield, testing its strength occasionally with the tip of one multi-snaked 'finger', tipping his head to the side as he did, in what Hermione determined to be a look of assessment - as if re-evaluating her threat to him. As her defiant brown eyes locked with the scarlet ones of her tormentor, Hermione schooled her features to show none of the pain that had flared on her arm, where Voldermorts branding still resided, despite her many attempts at having it removed.

_This isn't how I expected this to be_. The thought floated across her consciousness as the two combatants circled the shield she still held in place. Yes, her imaginings of this moment - and there had been many - had certainly never pictured her facing down Voldermort in a rudimentary body formed of thousands of snakes, but it was more than that. The anxiety; the fear; the terror, simply wasn't present. Yes, her heart was racing faster than she could ever recall, but she felt calm in a way she had seldom experienced before.

_You know what you have to do_. For a moment she wanted to protest to her inner self that she had no idea how she could break the unexpected stalemate, but, as she searched her mind, she realised she did indeed know what had to be done. The moment, although objectively only a few seconds, subjectively felt like a thousand lifetimes as the truth of what she had to do sank in.

Drawing a deep, cleansing breath, Hermione simultaneously dropped her shield and sprinted towards the form of Voldermorts avatar, her wand aloft, a deep, primitive cry issuing from deep within her chest.

"_DEFODIO!"_

_"INCIDERE!"_

_"ABRUMPIO!"_

She hurled each curse towards the avatar, knowing, even before she had dropped her shield than none would be able to burn, cut or split the beast apart - the many made the whole too strong.

Her legs pumping furiously, she covered the distance between them swiftly, firing off a couple more spells as she move within the giants reach. _Come on. Come on_, she willed, hoping Voldermort would take the bait.

He did.

A brief and foolish image of the muggle movie 'King Kong' flashed through her mind as Voldermort, with surprising agility, swept a 'hand' towards her and swiped her off the ground. She could feel each individual snake writhing against her incarcerated body as she was lifted four meters into the air roughly level with the learning features that approximated Voldermorts face - his scarlet eyes glinting with triumph.

"You can not harm me!" he taunted. "I who have gone farther than any other on the quest for immortality."

"Perhaps." replied Hermione calmly, rolling up her sleeve as she did so. "But this body isn't!"

The smirk evaporated on Voldermorts features as wordlessly Hermione pressed her wand tip onto her branding, silently casting an incantation of her own creation - _Gemino Multipla. _Completing the spell she rotated her wand through three-hundred-and-sixty degrees, noting, with great satisfaction, that a carbon copy of her own mark appeared on the scaly flesh of everyone of the snakes surrounding her.

Perhaps understanding what his attacker planned to do, Voldermort released Hermione, sending her tumbling several meters to the compacted floor - her side flaring with pain once more as her broken ribs attempted, and failed, to absorb the impact.

Ignoring the white hot sensation that her subconscious dimly associated with internal injuries, she repeated the actions she had witnessed the guards perform on her - so frequently had she been forced to endure torture at their hands during her imprisonment that the actions were ingrained on her consciousness.

"_Contraho_." she whispered, touching the tip of her wand into the flesh of her own arm.

Pain shot through her body like white lightening, making the agony in her side pale into insignificance, but she forced her watering eyes to remain open against the torment as she watched the inked serpent on her arm constrict around her mudblood branding - a shriek of pain from the Voldermort-avatar confirming her duplication spell had worked.

Falling to her knees, she forced herself not to look away from the form writhing avatar.

There was no other way to describe it; the avatar Voldermort had created was disintegrating before her eyes - dozens of lifeless snakes at a time falling away from the body as their individual hearts gave out to the pain Hermione knew all too well.

"No!" Voldermorts cry issued as almost a hiss, as the avatar collapsed to it's hands and knees, as the life of more an more of the snakes was extinguished.

_It's working! _She realised, a grim smile of retribution curling her lips even as her legs gave out completely sending her sprawling to the floor, sheer force of will keeping her wand tip in contact with her branding.

Now, only Nagini remained, sat atop a mound of lifeless snakes, trashing about in a vain attempt to shake of the curse. The part of it that retained Voldermort's image wearing a mingled expression of rage, agony and panic, and the part of her that had changed forever in the tunnels deep under London revelled in the panic in his eyes even as she began to cough up great quantities of blood, the thought occurring to her that even those heartless death eaters that served as her guards had never taken her this close to deaths embrace.

_End it._

With one last tortuous effort, she jabbed her wand deeper into her arm, the resultant scream of agony that issued from both her and Voldermort as loud as it was short lived, as she experienced the intriguing sensation of her own heart stopping.

This isn't so bad. The thought barely registered as the pain and every other sensation slipped away, just out of reach. Her last sight, as her vision receded to the smallest point of light, that of Nagini's still form lying atop the countless other serpents of Voldermorts short lived creation.

_It's over, _she though contentedly and finally released the grip on her wand as the darkness claimed her.

_A/N_

_Ok, so obviously she hasn't succeeded in killing old Voldy, or even Nagini, but he is at least powerless and without form once more, and will remain that way until a certain DADA teacher comes along. _

_The chapter title was inspired by JKR's own 'The Man With Two Faces'. _

_I doubt I'll be able to upload the remainder tomorrow (I guess I really should do some real work!) but I will do my best to have the remaining chapters up by the end of the week. _


	19. Chapter 18

**Chapter Eighteen – Farewells, Introductions and Conclusions **

It was over.

Dumbledore had arrived just in time, thanks, in no small part he assured Hermione, to her single-minded and swift escape from the caverns bellow the school, and subsequent journey to London, accompanied by Professor Snape, to find him.

She now sat alone, as instructed, in the headmasters private study. Her earlier intrigue in the professors strange instruments pushed aside, as she anxiously awaited news of Harry's condition. He had been rushed, alive but insensate, to the hospital wing, the headmaster pausing only long enough to conjure a second stretcher for the still unconscious Ron, and to offer instructions for Professor Snape to escort Hermione to his office, where she should await him."

_Snape_. She just couldn't get her head around it. She had been - _they_ had been so sure that the vindictive Slytherin head of house, had been behind the plot to steal the stone; steal it and present it to his master to assure himself of a place of honour in Voldermorts new world order. _But if not Snape, who? _she wondered, as she stood and began to pace the confines of the room. The Other Hermione had never suspected anyone else in Voldermorts rebirth, and every piece of evidence she had discovered during the year had pointed towards none other that Professor Severus Snape himself: The wound to his leg the night after Halloween; his attempted murder of Harry during the first Quidditch match of the year; his constant attempts to force Quirrell to divulge his defences against the stones theft. It all fit.

She made a harrumphing noise and threw herself back into the chair she had vacated. _Perhaps Dumbledore can shed a little light,_ she thought, remembering the last words he had spoken to her that evening, before hurrying off the infirmary; "I believe we have much to discuss." he had told her, his sapphire eyes boring into her very soul as he spoke.

Presently, Fawkes, who's perch had been empty when Professor Snape had left her alone, flew in through an open window. The giant bird circled the room once, before coming to rest gently on her shoulder, where he nuzzled her neck affectionately. Hermione absent mindedly stroked the phoenix's plumage as she watched the sky outside slowly brighten, the mountains that surrounded the castle on all sides now visible as silhouettes against the purpling sky. In an hour at most the sun would rise.

She stifled a yawn.

The adrenaline that had fuelled her - all night by the looks of things - was starting to ebb away. Her eyes felt scratchy and dry, as if someone had deposited the contents of the Sahara desert there, whilst her limbs felt like someone had poured concrete into them which was now slowly setting, and, although the night was not cold, a shiver passed across her exhausted frame. _Shock_, her logical mind concluded as she began to shake uncontrollably.

Pulling her feet up off the floor, she shifted her weight to the side and tucked her legs underneath herself, rearranging her robes to completely cover her bare legs and then wrapping her arms around her torso in an attempt to stave off the cold that felt like it was permeating her from the inside out.

_Don't leave, _she tried to say aloud as she felt Fawkes' comforting weight push off from her shoulder, but only an unintelligible grunt escaped her lips. Fawkes, though, had no intention of leaving her it seemed. Instead, a brief moment later, she felt the comforting weight of a heavy throw blanket draped across her. Through her closed eyelids she could picture the scarlet and gold bird clutching a blanket in it's talons, carefully covering her shivering form.

_Thanks Fawkes,_ she added silently as sleep overcame her.

oOo

Hermione jerked awake from a sleep she did not recall entering.

Stretching her muscles from the uncomfortable position she had been dozing in, she briefly wondered why she was sleeping in one of the Gryffindor common room arm chairs, rather than her comfortable bed upstairs in the girls dormitory.

Opening her eyes a crack against the too bright sunlight, she squinting to the right and recognised the room. This was not the circular common room, but instead the Headmasters study. With that realisation her memories returned, hitting her like a bludger to the head. _The stone! Voldermort! Harry!_

She jerked fully awake and pushed herself upright.

"Yes. We have had a somewhat, _eventful_, night, haven't we Miss Granger?" The unmistakable voice of Albus Dumbledore directed her focus to his desk, where the elderly wizard sat serenely behind it, his blue eyes twinkling mischievously.

"Harry? Ron? Voldermort?" she asked, a note of panic evident in her voice.

Dumbledore smiled. "Fine. Fine and gone." he replied comfortingly, ticking off her queries on three long fingers.

Hermione visibly relaxed back into the chair, the tension that had steadily been building in her all term draining away - they had done it.

Now her addled senses had fully awoken, she registered the sound of hundreds of people traipsing across the lawns bellow. Her distraction must have shown on her features, for Dumbledore interjected, "The final house game of the year I believe."

Hermione nodded mutely. The simultaneously confusing and comforting realisation occurring to her that, despite all that had happened over the last few hours, the rest of the world continued as normal, unaware that their whole existence was literally saved whilst they slept. Blissfully ignorant of the world they would have woken up to if they had failed.

"However I fear Professor McGonagall's trophy cabinet will remain bare this year with Harry still under the ministrations of Madame Pomfrey." Dumbledore added breaking Hermione's contemplation. Dumbledore smiled broadly, apparently recognising he now once again had her full attention. "Both Harry and Mr Weasley are still unconscious in the hospital wing, and I have requested Madame Pomfrey to keep them in such a state until we have had the chance to talk."

"And Voldermort? Is he - is he dead?"

Dumbledore's expression darkened somewhat, although he did not comment outwardly on the fact that Hermione had spoken his name without hesitation. "I fear that is not the case Miss Granger. I do not believe there is enough of him alive so that he may truly die."

"We thought it was Professor Snape helping Voldermort - who was it ?"

Dumbledore chuckled in apparent good humour. "Yes, he does seem like the type doesn't he? However - " he added, something indeterminable flashing behind his blue eyes. " - Professor Snape is one of most trusted confidants. I have complete faith in him. And - " he continued with a trace of venom in his voice. " - I suggest you extend him the same courtesy."

Hermione nodded once in silent agreement. Professor Snape might have been particularly unpleasant to them during the last year, but it seemed, he did have _some_ redeeming qualities.

"This time Voldermort chose to act through the unfortunate Professor Quirrell - he died at his masters bidding." he finished in answer to Hermione's original query.

"But the stone? Harry got the stone?" Hermione wanted to know.

"Yes, yes, Harry got the stone and I shall be making arrangements with my friend, Nicolas, to ensure it can never be used by Voldermort again."

"So that's it then?" she asked. "He can never come back?"

Dumbledore looked grave. "Alas no. For one as determined as Voldermort there are other ways to return. Ways I may need to pursue some research of my own." he added softly, apparently to himself.

Hermione's mind worked over everything Dumbledore had told her, but instead of questions about Voldermort, she found her subconscious guiding her to something the Professor had said in passing regarding Harry and Ron's condition.

"You said you have asked Madame Pomfrey to keep Harry and Ron unconscious sir. Why?"

Dumbledore positively beamed at her, apparently delighted that she had picked him up on what many would have viewed as a throw away comment. "As I said Miss Granger, I wanted to have a chance to speak with you prior to waking misters Potter and Weasley from their well earned rest. If I am not mistaken, there is far more to you, Miss Granger, than meets the eye."

Hermione didn't know what to say. It was obvious that the Headmaster knew, or at least strongly suspected what her role, both in the lead up to, and the cumulation of the events of last night had been. But having spent so much of the last three years keeping her knowledge a secret she did not know if this were the moment to divulge them.

Dumbledore seemed to read her thoughts for he added, "I don't suppose you are related to the Luesby's by any chance Miss Granger?"

_Trust him_. The voice of her mentor drifted across her thoughts. It had been perhaps the most puzzling of all of The Other Hermione's instructions to her - "_If Dumbledore ever ask about your Mother's family, and he will - he's a shrewd one Dumbledore_," she had counselled. "_Trust him._"

To Dumbledore she replied, "Its my Mothers maiden name."

The Headmasters all but permanent twinkle appearing to go into overdrive.

"The eyes!" he proclaimed cryptically. "I knew I'd - but I couldn't place them - truly remarkable."

By way of explanation of his rambled remarks he pulled open one of the draws of his desk. After a moments rummaging he pulled out a photo frame, and passed it across the table to her.

_It's her!_ She realised instantly, her heart skipping a beat as her eyes took in the image of a person she never expected to see again - The Other Hermione. The beaming image of her mentor looked considerably younger and fitter than she had during the time that Hermione had known her, although the text bellow the picture - _Defence Against the Dark arts, Professor Luesby, 1984/85 - _indicated that there was less than five years between their first meeting and the picture being taken.

Dumbledore regarded her in silence for a moment before gently asking, "I presume you recognise the person in the photograph?"

"Yes." she replied, still uncertain as to how much she should reveal. She glanced down at the frame resting in her hands to see The Other Hermione pointing her head in Dumbledore's direction, then nodding furiously, her unspoken intentions clear - _tell him_.

"Yes," she repeated. "That is Hermione Jean Granger - "

Neither of them reacted to the roar of excitement that drifted through the open window - Ravenclaw and Gryffindor's match had obviously begun.

Dumbledore himself, seemed neither surprised nor shocked by her revelations, instead he settled back in his high backed chair, his demeanour evidently inviting her to expand on her statement.

Nodding, Hermione drew a deep breath and over the course of the morning relayed, in a much detail as she could recall, _everything_; everything she had learnt of the alternate time line The Other Hermione had fled from; everything she knew of both Harry's and her own prophecies, and everything she had done since her arrival at Hogwarts to ensure Harry's safety in that time.

" - and that's - that's the end." she concluded somewhat lamely, several hours later having talked herself hoarse.

To her surprise she noted that Dumbledore had been weeping, the dried tears tracks clearly visible on his wrinkled skin before being lost behind his long, silvery beard. He was now regarding her with an expression she read as quiet admiration. "Miss Granger. _Hermione_." he said at length. "You have been burdened in a manner that no one your age should ever be. To have born it so well is a testament to your bravery and diligence"

Hermione felt the blush rise into her cheeks. She wanted to say 'it was nothing', but knew the words would ring hollow.

"But," he continued. "I must counsel you that this is not the end, as you put it, and I fear I must once again ask too much of you." Dumbledore paused, as if searching for the right words. "You see, for many years now, I have known of the prophecy of which you have spoken, and whilst I am not in a position to divulge all of it secrets to you - " he added quickly, cutting off a series of questions that had already half formed on her lips. " - I can confirm that Harry's Prophecy does suggest that he, and he alone can defeat Voldermort for good."

"But without the Triagon he can not succeed." Hermione interjected, following the Headmasters logic to it's only conclusion.

"Indeed." agreed Dumbledore. "And it is here that I must once again burden you Miss Granger. It is my belief that, as you have so eloquently put it, Harry can only succeed in fulfilling his destiny with the help of you and Mr Weasley. However, I do not believe Mr Weasley mature enough at present to share in your burden - " he added quickly, obviously reading Hermione's line of thought that a burden shared was a burden halved. " - so I have taken the liberty of implanting a false memory into Mr Weasley's mind. He will believe that he was awoken by you in the caverns, and that you stumbled upon me by chance as you made your way to the owlery."

Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but was quickly rendered mute as her logical side assimilated what the headmaster had said. It was not as if she wanted to be dishonest with her best friends, but she knew she could not divulge the whole story either - not yet anyway - Harry's destiny was still incomplete, and as it intertwined so comprehensibly with her own she knew she could do nothing that would jeopardise that.

Obviously being unconscious for the most part, Ron knew little or nothing of those secrets she harboured, but he was, despite his attempts to hide it, very intelligent and would certainly be able to pose some awkward questions of her; questions she would not be able to answer truthfully. Questions like how a twelve year old witch had managed to transport his unconscious body back out of the caverns.

As Dumbledore had pointed out, Ronald Weasley was relatively immature. His reaction to discovering that he was being kept in the dark would probably be to rage and scream at her, before promptly running to Harry to divulge the whole tale.

"So this isn't the end." she said eventually. It was not a question.

"No. But perhaps the beginning of the end." Dumbledore stated wearily, looking everyone of his many years, his expression revealing his own inner torment from manipulating events to be as great, if not greater, than her own.

"Or the end of the beginning." Hermione concluded, completing the words of a former Muggle Prime Minister that Dumbledore had, perhaps unwittingly, been paraphrasing.

Dumbledore expression brightened, and he smiled broadly, apparently satisfied with the turn of phrase.

oOo

_Seven years earlier_

A knock at the office door interrupted the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor from the task of packing.

"Come." came the muffled reply. Its owner speaking with their head inside an open crate of belongings.

The door swung open to reveal Professor Dumbledore striding into the small circular office, dressed in deep purple robes, a look of deep disappointment etched on his aged features. In his left hand he grasped a single piece of parchment.

"Professor Luesby," he began. "Would you mind explaining this?" he finished, placing the parchment on the desk.

Hermione stood gingerly. "I should think that's obvious Albus. That - " she gestured to the note lying atop her now empty desk. " - is my letter of resignation."

Dumbledore regarded her in silence for a moment, his eyes scanning the now bare office. All around stood half full boxes and crates of the professors teaching aids, and the walls, which were once adorned by posters, each showing various offensive and defensive spell work diagrammatically, were now bare. Only the bleach marks on the stone walls bore testament to the fact they were ever there.

"Perhaps I should have clarified my question." he said at length, the corner of his lip quirking into a smile causing his beard to twitch. "What I would like to know, is why?"

Hermione considered the question as she guided the last of her text books into an open case with her wand, the carry case magically sealing itself and shrinking to the size of a postage stamp as she did so.

She certainly didn't want to leave the school; not really. But there were several competing factors to consider; her own personal enjoyment regarding her teaching position at Hogwarts being lowest amongst them, and whilst she truly did enjoy the job - loved it in truth - circumstances had changed. It was time to move on.

Perhaps her single largest motivation for leaving the castle - or at least the reason she would willingly share with the staff and students - stemmed from the deteriorating condition of her health. Her confrontation with Voldermort had left her close to death, and, although she had been rescued by the man standing before her now, she had yet to fully recover.

Madame Pomfrey now doubted she ever would, her magical core, already seriously depleted owing to her ongoing, and ever worsening AK injury, had been all but extinguished after her battle with what remained of Voldermort. The dozens of potion vials she had prescribed for Hermione each day now only serving to delay the inevitable, as opposed to permitting her to live the almost normal life she had managed until that point.

That realisation, coupled with her own uncompleted destiny, had led her to delivering her resignation letter this morning. She had come to accept, as Dumbledore himself had phrased it during her convalescence in the infirmary, that '_what remained of Voldermort is not truly alive enough to ever die, not as we understand it at any rate'_. In that single statement Hermione had been forced to accept the truth of her prophecy; a truth she had endlessly debated with herself for almost five years. She could not defeat Voldermort. Nor, for that matter could anyone else, save for one small boy currently residing at number four, Privet Drive, Surrey. It had never been her destiny to kill the dark lord - not directly at any rate.

To Dumbledore she said, "Look at me Albus. I've aged a decade in six months." she ran a hand through her now completely grey hair as if to emphasize the point.

No one was completely certain why her body now appeared to be ageing far more rapidly, but Dumbledore postulated that whilst fleeing the unconscious body of Nagini, Voldermort had briefly tried to inhabit her own, which, whilst unsuccessful, perhaps due to her weakened magical core, had 're awoken', for want of a better term, the effects of the Killing Curse.

"I've had more days off sick in the last term than I've been able to teach," she continued. "And it's only going to get worse. You can't honestly believe I am still fit to hold the position of professor?"

"Well I must say, I have enjoyed my return to the classroom as your substitute..." began the headmaster jovially, but his good humour was apparently forced as his voice trailed away to nothing, his shoulders slumping dejectedly.

"I had hoped," he restarted with a sigh, his sapphire eyes without their ever present twinkle. "To convince you to change your mind, or at least, postpone your decision, but I now see that you are right. I will draft an advertisement for your replacement immediately."

"Thank you Albus." she said as he turned to leave. "And professor - " she added causing the headmaster to halt mid-stride as he reached to doorway. " - goodbye."

Dumbledore turned, some of his old sparkle returning to his expression. "Goodbye, Miss Luesby? No. I feel farewell is more appropriate, for I feel certain we shall meet again. Farewell and good luck."

Without waiting for reply or acknowledgement he turned on his heel and was gone, leaving Hermione to wonder, and not for the first time, just how much the wizened headmaster _really_ knew.

Hermione did not get more than a moment to consider that question before another knock sounded at her still slightly ajar office door. She looked up and caught sight of the distinctive features of Nymphadora Tonks standing apprehensively in the doorway, although for the first time in many months her hair had reverted to it's natural mousey brown, her preferred colouring of lilac absent today.

"So it's true then." said Tonks without preamble, taking a solitary step into the office. "You're leaving." it was not a question.

Hermione offered a single nod by way of reply.

Nymphadora dropped her gaze to the floor, where she scuffed at the stone tiling with her shoe. "But you can't go." she whispered almost inaudibly, looking and sounding briefly far younger than her years.

Hermione regarded the young witch fondly. Of all of her achievements during the past academic year, and there were many (the DADA grades were the highest in a generation across all seven year groups, despite her frequent absences), seeing Tonks blossom from a shy and nervous young girl, into a bright young witch, was the one in which she took most pride.

"Nymphadora," she said, walking stiffly round to the front of her desk. "_Tonks_. I have to leave, I'm not well. And you deserve more than a part time teacher. Especially if you want to become an auror."

Tonks looked up. "Do you really think I could be?" she asked in wonder.

Hermione had never before mentioned to her what she believed the young Hufflepuff could achieve, but in her ten months as her teacher, Tonks had consistently proven herself more than capable of of developing the skills required to become a Ministry auror – her occasional clumsiness notwithstanding.

"Certainly." Hermione offered kindly. "Besides," she added in an attempt to lighten the first years mood. "Think of all the fun you can have pranking the new Defence teacher next year."

"Someone who's not as wise to your tricks as I am."

A wicked grin half formed on Tonk's pale face and Hermione returned it in full force. "Now run along. The end of year feast is about to begin."

"Yes Professor." said Tonks, taking half a step to leave before coming to a halt. She seemed to be having an internal argument with herself about something; something Hermione quickly understood when the Hufflepuff discarded any sense of propriety and threw herself into a tight embrace with Hermione; an embrace Hermione returned although somewhat uncomfortably - she still felt bound to the decorum of a teacher, even though she no longer was one.

Hermione smiled affectionately as Tonks released her embrace and bolted for the door, pulling it shut with a bang.

Closing her last trunk with a flick of her wand, Hermione took one last look around her now empty office as she prepared to leave Hogwarts for good, for the second time in her lifetime._ But at least, _she thought._ This time I do it on my own terms._

OOo

_Four years later_

Hermione savoured the warmth of the summer sun as it spilled in through the large window of Faringdon's local library, where she sat reading in a quite corner. In truth she had read the same line of her book several times, but had yet to take any meaning from the page, as her eyes kept shooting towards the library's main entrance, hoping to spot her younger self walking through the entrance.

It had been thirty subjective years since she had first begun visiting this place, but, since she had used her time turner to jump forwards to find the only person who could now continue her destiny, she had quickly fallen back into the routine she had formed as a school child, calling in most evenings after school hours.

During those visits she had observed her younger self carefully, deciding, based on what she had witnessed yesterday, that today was the day to reveal everything to her younger self.

Yesterday she had witnessed her younger self demonstrate an incredible piece of magic – although her younger self was, of course, completely unaware that she had done so.

Whilst gropping around on her desk for a pencil, too engrossed in the book she was studying to look up. The youngster hadn't simply stumbled across one; she had actually summoned one from a table four feet away.

It had been that impressive display of involuntary magic that had convinced Hermione that today was the day. She knew that as a nine year old she had already recognised herself as different from those around her, she just hopped that her younger self was as mature as she recalled herself being.

A familiar mop of brown hair caught her eye as it moved past the windows. Hermione traced it with butterflies in her stomach as she watched her younger form appear in the doorway. Hermione caught the youngsters eye and waved the youngster over.

"Hi Mrs Umbridge." said Hermione beaming as she bounded up the stairs.

"Hello Hermione. Do take a seat. I have something to tell you. Something you might find unbelievable..."

oOo

_Nine years later _

It was over.

Hermione carefully picked her way around the debris strewn across the slopping lawns of Hogwarts the morning after the final battle against Voldermorts dark army. They had won.

Almost exactly seven years since she, Harry and Ron had foiled Voldermort from stealing the philosophers stone, Harry had finally defeated the wizard they now knew had once been called Tom Riddle, in a night long battle for supremacy on the grounds of the castle.

During all those years she had never revealed the truth to Harry and Ron; a truth that Dumbledore had taken to his grave. A truth she had kept secret to this day.

The prospect of their reactions when they learnt that they had been, at best, kept in the dark, and at worst, manipulated by someone they had believed to be a friend did scare her somewhat. But perhaps the main reason she continued to hide her past from them was because, as she had grown to realise in recent years, that it no longer mattered. It didn't matter why they were friends, or how it had come to be that they formed the Triagon of light - together hunting down and destroying the parts of Tom Riddles soul that he had hidden and served to keep him immortal - they simply had. And in doing so she had fulfilled not only her own destiny but Harry's too.

She crested a slight rise in the lawn as she circled a twenty foot gouge in the earth, permitting her first unobstructed view of the lake. Several huge lumps of masonry lay where they had fallen (or been hurled) in the shallows, but, miraculously, 'her' tree remained undamaged. Trotting down the banks to it she breathed in the aroma of it - her place of solitude throughout her school years - a wide smile spreading across her face as she noted the first blossoms of spring budding on it's ancient branches.

Although spring had officially begun several weeks earlier, the dark pallor that had hung over the ground of Hogwarts during the war seemed to have slowed the progress from winter to spring.

_A new beginning,_ she realised. _For everyone._

She threw herself to the floor cross-legged and closed her eyes, savouring the moment of solitude - she hadn't had so much as an hour to herself in the near year long hunt for Horcruxes.

An indeterminate amount of time later she opened her eyes, her brown eyes falling upon an unnaturally straight branch apparently dislodged from the tree lying on the compacted earth. No, not a twig, she realised, a wand. She leant forward and picked it up. It's shaft was rough and coarse - a strangely familiar sensation although she couldn't place where from at the moment.

"Hermione?" The voice of her best friend - _boyfriend_? - reached her ears a moment later, and she stood to greet him. "You coming?" he asked, winding his arms around her waist, planting a chaste kiss on her cheek. "The Minister's coming to the castle. Harry needs us."

Hermione felt a Mona Lisa smile quirk the corners of her lips. _Of course he does_, she thought.

Taking Ron's offered hand they walked hand in hand back up to the castle.

_A/N _

_Ok, that's it, aside from a very short epilogue, that's my first completed work. _

_Depending on the day of the week, I switch from being very pleased with it, to thinking its the ramblings of an unimaginative twelve year old the next. I'll let you guys and gals decide, but regardless, I had fun writing it. _

_This was two chapters originally, sticking to the rest of the stories structure of one chapter for AU and one for canon, but I decided, as their destiny's now merge, to merge the chapters too. Hopefully its not too clonky this way. _

_I'll post the epilogue shortly._


	20. Epilogue

**Epilogue**.

Hermione took her hand from her forehead and for a moment felt as if she had forgotten how to breathe.

Her world seemed to be spinning around her. Endless tracks of time branching off in all directions, all leading to their own alternate reality. The possibilities were literally endless - unimaginable.

"_Hermione_?"

She became aware of a familiar voice calling out to her. A voice laced with concern. "_Hermione_?" repeated the voice of her husband, from somewhere nearby.

She tried to reply but found her throat dry as ash, she felt as if she had not spoken in aeons

"I thought I saw you head down here." came the closer, now amused sounding voice of Ron.

It occurred to her that she had no idea how long she had been down by the lake speaking with -

_Hermione!_

She shot to her feet far faster than someone in her pregnant condition should have been capable of_, _sending Ron hurrying to her side, his face a mask of concern.

_Hermione! _she thought again._ The Other Hermione! _Where was she? She had been right next to her. _Right there_, she thought wildly searching to spot under the oaks branches.

"Hermione! Is everything alright? The baby?" Ron's concerned voice dragged her back to reality - this reality.

"How long - " she croaked. "How long have I been here?"

"At Hogwarts?"

"No. By the tree."

"I saw you duck under here a minute ago as I walked up the drive." Ron replied, still studying her face intently. "Took me that long to jog down the lawn."

Hermione massaged her eyes, and once more the myriad of images The Other Hermione had somehow shown her before vanishing filled her mind like a damn bursting. The memories she had just relived rushed up at her once more, the mass of previously unknown, but somehow always present years, crushing her, as if under an avalanche. She staggered backwards, her fall arrested by the strong arms of her husband, who lowered her gently back to the earth, his voice ringing out loud, although as if from a great distance, for assistance.

"Hermione." she whispered aloud as the world around her faded from view replaced with images from another life - another Hermione's life. She saw again The Other Hermione's safe house off the Cornish coast. She pictured her life with Victor Krum before his untimely death. She saw other faces too - she knew she did not recognise, but she knew them never-the-less - Deanna Lumière and countless others amongst them.

"_Memorha Mihi_." she whispered under her breath as she translated the route Latin of the spell her other self had cast - _Remember Me_.

Had she really seen a past she could never have known? A future that would now never come to pass?

"Hermione?" Ron's panic stricken voice reached her once more. Closer this time.

"Ron!" she yelped and pulled him close with one arm, rubbing her face with the other, as if waking from a long sleep.

"Thank Merlin!" he exclaimed, pulling back to arms length to regard his wife. "I thought - I thought - the baby - " but his words trailed away.

"Its alright Ron." she said soothingly. "We're fine. We're _both_ fine."

"We should still get you up to the hospital wing."

"I don't need a healer Ronald." she said with a little of her old irritation at his mollycoddling. "But I do need to tell you something. Sit down."

Ron shot a quick glance towards the castle but did as requested.

Hermione drew a deep breath, the aroma of Neville's Roses once more filling her nose. "There was once a brave Ravenclaw. Her name was Hermione Jean Granger ..."

_A/N _

_That's all Folks. _

_Where has AU Hermione gone? Who knows. She's still got her time turner, so as I didn't want to write her inevitable death, you can assume she has used it to make one last journey – you can use your imaginations as to where she might go._

_I also believe that once 'our' Hermione has divulged everything to Ron, that she would tell Harry too. _

_Ps I should add that the epilogue and prologue were inspired by the work of the always excellent Judith and Garfield Reeves-Stevens._


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